At fourteen, Jack wasn’t allowed to swear at home, but that didn’t stop him cursing as he ran down Charles Street. He was already five minutes late for baseball practice—the thought of sprints as punishment didn’t sit well with him.
He was bouncing on his heels at the crosswalk, waiting for the pedestrian light; Boston Common—and its baseball field—was within reach when he saw what looked like an enormous crow drop down from a low branch of a tree on the hillside that rose up between the Frog Pond and the baseball diamond.
