"He was only a boy when the wound opened.
He had dark, unkempt hair and bright blue eyes that obscured the insecurities that simmer as a boy’s brain and body take the first steps toward becoming a man’s. So he would do what boys do – whatever it took to stand out, to earn pats on the back, to make them say nice job, Mikey. He was more powerful than the other kids, his frame thicker, so he would make the radar gun explode. He would make them remember Mike Devlin.
So one day the 14-year-old gripped his lacrosse stick hard and pulled it back behind his right shoulder. His left arm coiled around his torso and muscles contracted and tendons stretched as his body loaded like a spring. When he unwound and the stick snapped forward, the torque peeled some of the labrum in his left shoulder off the bone. The radar gun registered 87, and the other New England kids vying for the fastest shot on that summer day in 2003 shouted and marveled like he had hoped they would – but he knew something wasn’t right.
Something inside of him was broken."