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the seat to adjust to the low height of the bike.
    “Now turn,” he yelled.
    Ahead of me was a mass of sound coming from the thruway.  Despite the chain-link fence in between, I suddenly felt like I was about to ride right into traffic.  My heart raced and my palms were sweating.
    “Turn.  Turn, Sean, turn.”
    The bike wobbled and shook from the fierce wind blowing off the tractor-trailers as they flew by, drawing closer and growing larger in my ever-widening eyes.
    “Turn,” the old man yelled again.
    And somehow, I fought off the anxiety and impending heart attack, and I turned the handlebars.  It wasn’t clean.  It wasn’t graceful.  I’m sure it wasn’t pretty.  But I did it.
    The bike turned and then straightened out.
    “That’s it!” the old man yelled.  I swear I had never seen him so excited.
    He ran over to me, and I slowed up and then stopped.  I looked up at him.
    “Great job, Sean.  You did a great job.”  He patted my back and rubbed it.  It was truly a once in a lifetime moment.
    My father was proud of me.  Visibly, noticeably proud.
    My confidence grew, and I rounded the schoolyard again, then again.  For several minutes I did laps around the playground.  With each lap my steering was cleaner, my balance steadier.
    I had my back to my father when I heard a noise: he shouted.  I jerked the bike around and stumbled, my foot hitting the ground to keep my balance and the bike upright.  I kicked the ground a couple of times, then rode towards him.
    Two men were standing over my father.  He’d been knocked to the ground.  I didn’t know who the men were at the time.  But now I know them both well: Vinny Macho and Scrubby Mike.  Vinny was maybe thirty at the time and Mike in his early twenties but otherwise, they haven’t changed much.
    Maria fidgets in her chair at the mere mention of the two men.
    Scrubby’s foot was pressed across my father’s chest, holding him down.  My father wasn’t struggling, but Vinny Macho kicked him a few times anyway.
    “Dad!”  I pedaled over and came to a stop right in front of the three men.
    “That’s your kid?” Vinny Macho asked.
    “Yep,” the old man said, then wiggled slightly.  Scrubby moved his foot, and my father sat up.
    “Nice bike,” Scrubby said.
    I slowly moved the bike backwards by kicking my feet against the asphalt.
    Vinny Macho shook his head back and forth the way the nuns at Sacred Heart would do to me when I was late for class.
    “Where’d you get the bike, Shamrock Sean?”
    My father’s red nose and cheeks went redder still, but he didn’t answer.
    “We know where you got the bike,” Scrubby Mike said.
    “Look guys, I was gonna come see you.”
    Vinny Macho started shaking his head again.  Then he sighed and bit his lip.  “You know the deal, Shamrock.  You and Griff stole this off Dusty’s truck, didn’t you?”
    “I said I was coming to see you guys.  I just wanted to let the kid ride it.”
    “Anything you get off Dusty belongs to me.  You know that.”
    “I was gonna kick a piece upstairs.  I always do.”
    “The bike’s worth what, a couple hundred?  You give me a hundred and the kid keeps the bike.”
    My father stood up and reached into his pockets.  He pulled out a sad wad of bills and counted it.  “I’ve got thirty bucks.  I’m good for the rest.”
    “No chance.”
    Scrubby Mike started to laugh.  Then he turned to me and said, “Come on, kid.  Get off the bike.”
    I stepped back a few more steps.
    My old man held the money up trying to give it to Vinny Macho as he said, “Here.  Take what I got.  I’ll talk to Griff and see what he has.  We’ll both come down to the Cucina later with the full hundred.”
    “Get off the bike, little Shamrock,” Vinny said.
    “Give the kid a break,” the old man said.  He stepped in Vinny’s way and cried, “I’m good for the money.”
    With an open hand, Vinny slapped my old man across the face while Scrubby Mike grabbed