“One more thing before we go…” I sit forward in my chair, my hands balled into fists as I look at them sternly. “It’s gonna be chaos out there today, so be prepared. Have your wits about you and keep up your strength. This thing’s gonna go on for a while, I can see it coming.”
They all nod seeming as concerned as I feel as I pick up my trusty gavel. “Okay, brothers… disperse.” I bang my gavel on the table and lay it down, taking a deep breath as I sit back in my chair preparing myself for the onslaught about to hit us.
I take this moment to reflect.
My family means everything to me. Not just the family I have now, but the family I’ve lost.
My eyes shift to my gavel.
The simple piece of wood handed down through the generations.
It was my father’s.
It was his father’s.
Funny how a simple piece of wood with the club skull emblem on it can mean so much.
It signifies so damn much.
That gavel has traveled from Ireland and made its home here in Chicago where it belongs. And one day, I hope the gavel will be passed down the line to my son.
This club has a long line of O’Shea blood coursing through it, and I hope it continues for a long-ass time. But I can’t sit in here all day and stare at my father’s gavel reminiscing. I have a job to do.
As much as it damn well terrifies me.
So, I stand and head for the chapel door, take a deep breath, then yank it open.