Sometimes it can be fun to imagine a classic story from the villain's point of view. To gain new perspective, hear opposing arguments – maybe even shift your sympathies.
This is a story about a man from Long Island.
Robert Sanfilippo had a son—a young boy, of about 10 or 11—who liked to play baseball or, anyway, who played baseball, and his playing of it was liked by his dad.
Robert's son played for a team called the Long Island Infernos. He spent his weekends criss-crossing Long Island, eating Quaker Oats bars and drinking Capri Suns, and putting the base in the hoop—hole in one—or however baseball is played.
However, while the other boys strolled ‘round the diamond like golden gods—their skinny arms hurling fastballs like meteors, their hand-eye coordination the stuff of legend—Robert's son struggled.
Perhaps the boy had other talents. Writing or building or videogamery.
But Robert decided his son's talent was baseball.
He took $50,000 of his own money and vowed vengeance upon those children whose prowess on the field had outshone the fruit of his loins'. He would fund a new baseball team, recruit like it was the big time, buy them top of the line equipment, and cover all of their expenses.
Because FUCK YOU FUCKING FUCKERS AAAAAARGH was too long to fit on the uniforms, the team would be called "The Long Island Vengeance," a popular nickname ascribed to anything that comes from Long Island.
While other Long Island teams had modest equipment, Sanfilippo spent like a Suffolk County Steinbrenner. The Vengeance sported top of the line helmets with airbrushed skull and crossbones insignias that cost upwards of $300 each for a team of roughly 20 kids. The squad also provided each player with two uniforms and baseball bags worth hundreds of dollars.
The team would be elite. Unbeatable. Made-up of players recruited from newspapers and off other teams.
The kind of purebred, pedigreed underdog whose father nabbed "Best Non-Sporting" at Westminster you love to root for.
Unfortunately, Robert was arrested last Friday — cut down at age 45, in the prime of his son's prime.
Revenge is a dish best served absolutely crazy.