CHAPTER ONE
Michael opened his eyes slowly, looking around and trying to reacclimatize himself.
The large bed in which he found himself was dwarfed in this grand room. Silk covered the walls, beautiful moldings lined the ceiling and a tapestry like nothing he had ever seen adorned the long wall; so grand in fact that it made the oil paintings that hung on the other walls – each their own master piece -- seem insignificant in its presence.
The strong afternoon sun that burst through the window sliced through the partially closed drapes, forcing him to squint in an effort to protect his eyes. He held his hand up to block the rays like a shield deflecting incoming arrows. The drapes, he could see, were opulent: appropriate in the bed chamber of royalty. Not that he actually knew what a royal bed chamber would look like, but he assumed this would be it.
The majority of the room was soft earth tones of taupe, muted sea-green with bursts of vivid colors for contrast. The furniture was classic country French he would later come to know, and despite the overall elegance of the room it had a very casual comfort to it.
Only fourteen, Michael had never before been exposed to such grandeur, except viewing it from afar upon q screen at a movie theater. Though most of the movies he had seen in the past – action movies -- lacked such beautiful sets.
He had been raised in Manchester, England in a blue collar part of town. Sam, his dad, was a shoemaker, with a shop that had been passed down from generation to generation over the past century. Walking through the front door was like walking through time; to a place, a style, a commitment to excellence long since forgotten in this new modern world. And yet, his father’s outdated, slow and structured life provided him with a sense of fulfillment and happiness that most of the bustling masses would never know existed – they were in too much of a hurry to see it.
His mom was a seamstress, thought, he sensed, her work days were filled more with a sense of duty than joy. Her joy was reserved for Sam, Michael and the modest home they shared.
He lived a relatively non-descript life in a non-descript place, where he passed the time dreaming of the day he could set out on his own, leaving the gray skies of England behind him as he made his mark on the world. He was a good student, smart and attentive to his studies. He was a fast learner, so much so that he often left things to the last moment. And when he wasn’t working as an apprentice in his father’s shop, he ditched his studies to engage in his passion: baseball.
So while his father would become upset with him sidestepping his studies, he would also be just as furious that he was playing baseball … and not cricket, like a respectable young Englishmen. And though his father knew that Michael – for reasons he couldn’t fathom – loved baseball, he never knew of Michael’s secret quest to play for the New York Yankees. Then again, any team would do, as long as he didn’t have to mend shoes for a living: he had grander aspirations. But while he would ditch his studies, he never ditched his obligations to his father or the shop. Every day that he was scheduled to work as an apprentice he arrived with an eager grin on his face. The last time however was four years ago.
He now yearned to go back, to once again walk into the shop and see his dad’s pride as he walked through the door, the bearer of a family’s legacy. But that, just like playing for the Yankees, was just an empty dream, a fantasy he would engage in before snapping back to his reality: dad was dead, so was mum, and I am alone in a world of strangers.
As he lay upon the bed in his unfamiliar surroundings, he suddenly missed his parents and the simple life they shared together. He had a pang of guilt for his wish to leave them.
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