(30 years earlier in Portland, Oregon)

Mark Bannister, my 11-year-old boyhood best friend, who is now known exclusively as Bee-Bo the Clown, and I arrived at the Little League baseball diamond together.

Coming to a screeching halt we slammed the brakes on our ten-speed Schwinn bicycles on hard and spun our back tires around in the dirt.

Laughing heartily we exchanged High Fives and exclaimed, "Oh yeah!"

Once again we were the kings of the world!

Known as two miscreants, Mark and I did everything together. We hung out at the Rose Valley Mall playing arcade games and copied each other's homework assignments instead of doing the work ourselves. We even wore each other's favorite clothes and tag teamed in skirmishes with other boys.

With a silver spoon stuck in his mouth, Mark was born into abstract wealth and privilege as the son of the owners of the Bannister Rose Packing and Shipping Company. Portland's largest rose distribution plant.

Doted on, and spoiled rotten to the core, Mark wanted for nothing. All he did was whine a little, pout some, and whatever he desired suddenly appeared in his hand. On the surface it appeared Mark lived a charmed life.

However, Mark's socialite parents frequently entertained Portland's elite Upper Crust. This left his daily care to a long string of nannies. They did not remain for any length of time in the position. Most of them claimed they were seriously mistreated by the snobbish Bannisters.

The youngest of three sons, I was born Brock Patrick Daniels on November 13, 1974. My Dad was the strict, no-nonsense, Foreman of the Bannister Rose Packing and Shipping Company. The Bannister's crown jewel. That was how Mark and I first met.

Never a stranger to my Dad's belt I was taught from an early age to always own my actions.

Because as my Dad constantly told me, "They define who you are and reflect adverse reactions from others."

He wanted us all to be more successful in life than he was. And one way or the other all three of his sons would be. A typical Dad's feelings.

Today's game, and the reason Mark and I were at the ballpark, was an important one. Winning meant advancing to the Regional Championship game. Visions of Williamsport, Pennsylvania, where the Little League World Series is contested every year, danced in our dreams.

The possibility was not out of the question. Our team, The Gunslingers, was good. Real good. We were undefeated and could see the carrot dangling at the end of the stick. All The Gunslingers had to do was reach out and grab our prize.

Mark was sure he would be the starting pitcher for us that day. After all, he was the second best flame thrower in the league we competed in. Our Manager, Justin Winslow, decided differently and gave the nod to me.

"Why does Brock get to pitch this game?" Mark demanded unhappy with the coach's decision, "I should be!" he protested.

"Because Brock possesses a much better curveball than you do Mark," Coach Winslow answered him.

Mark would be my catcher. I would also bat Lead Off. A position Mark frequently held.

With the bases empty, and the score tied 3 to 3 in the bottom of the last inning, I came up to bat. I was just looking for a way to get on base and start a rally. After a quick glance at my family seated in the stands along the firstbase sideline, and taking a couple practice swings, I settle into my stance at home plate.

"Knock a home run son!" I heard my Dad holler at me.

My Dad and I were very close. He was always there for me. I looked back at him and said, "This one's for you Dad!"

The pitcher wound up. He kicked his leg and grooved a fastball down the middle of the plate. I cut loose as hard as I could swing the bat and smashed the pitch! The ball banged loudly off the centerfield wall and I was off to the races.

The ball ricocheted away from their Centerfielder and rolled back in the direction of the infield. I rounded second base keeping the play in front of me. The Centerfielder retrieved the baseball as I made third base. Doing so I misstepped on the base and felt my right ankle twist.

I limped on since I was already half way home and slid into homeplate on my stomach. I scored the winning run just ahead of the catcher's tag to my tail end. The Gunslingers fans erupted into loud cheers!

My teammates, with the noticeable exception of one, wildly celebrated around me. I rolled over on my back writhing in agony. My severely twisted ankle ballooning! I would have to be helped off the field.

Slapping the back of his catcher's mitt with the palm of his right hand Mark walked past me without saying a word. Instead of a congratulatory comment he gave me a cold stare. I was puzzled by my friend's hostility. What I did not realize was the first seed of resentment between the two of us had been deeply planted and began festering. There would be several more.

In Mark's mind he must have thought something along the lines of, " I'm tired of always having to play Second Banana to you Brock!"

Later, Mark's resentment would boil over and his animosity towards me would come to a screeching head! At the time of this game I had no idea on what grand a scale Mark's rage would manifest itself. No one did.

Unfortunately, we would all find out!