All bad or all good?

👦 The Making of a Handful
We were a family of seven — two brothers, two sisters, and my parents. A full house, and somehow still room for trouble.
From an early age, I was the problem child. Always in trouble at school. Always pushing the line. A real parent’s nightmare.
Both my parents worked, which meant we had a lot of freedom — maybe too much. We’d run wild during the day, then clean up our act just in time for dinner around six. Sit down, smile, act innocent. It was a routine.
This was the early 60s. I was just a kid, but already a handful. Always up to something. And most of the time? I didn’t get caught.
Looking back, it’s no surprise where I ended up. The signs were there — I just didn’t know yet what kind of life I was warming up for.

🏡 Florissant Roots and Catholic School Shoes
Looking back now, I realize my parents gave us the best life they could with what they had.
We lived in a middle-class neighborhood in Florissant, Missouri — a solid town with good people and just enough room to get into trouble. My parents both worked hard so they could send us to Catholic school right there in town. That was their priority: discipline, faith, and a shot at something better.
Mom would drop us off in the morning, and we’d walk home in the afternoon — no big deal. Back then, in the early 60s, kids could still run the streets without someone kidnapping or killing them. We had freedom, and we used it.
We’d pretend to be innocent by dinner, usually around six. But the truth? I was already a handful. Always in trouble. Always pushing the line. And most of the time, I didn’t get caught.

🏃‍♂️ Candy Bars and Woods — Before It Got Bad
Other than stealing candy bars and anything that wasn’t bolted down, I was a pretty good kid. LOL.
Before things got wild, I played sports. Ran through the woods by our house. Got dirty, scraped up, and came home just in time for dinner. It was simple. It was fun.
It’s kind of a shame — I don’t really remember when I was a good kid. Those moments blur. The trouble stands out. Maybe that’s just how memory works when you’ve lived a life like mine.
But I know this: before the bets, the bars, and the borrowed money, there was a kid who just wanted to play ball and explore the woods.

🍬 C’s, Candy Bars, and a Pretty Good Kid
I’m stealing candy. I’m pulling a solid C average at school — on a good day. And these? These are the good years.
But here’s the thing: I still think I was a pretty good kid.
Sure, I bent the rules. Broke a few. Got away with more than I should’ve. But I wasn’t mean. I wasn’t cruel. I was just restless, curious, and always looking for the next thrill.
Before the bets, the bars, and the borrowed money — there was a kid with sticky fingers and a crooked grin, trying to figure out the world one candy bar at a time

🧱 Memoir Structure: “From Candy Bars to Comebacks”
Part I: The Making of a Handful

How survival became stewardship

Growing up in Florissant, Missouri

Catholic school, C averages, and candy theft

Early signs of rebellion and charm
Part II: The Hustle Years

Gambling at 20, $4K in debt, and the offer you couldn’t refuse

Becoming a bookmaker, selling pot and coke, living the Goodfellas life

Paranoia, pretend jobs, and union muscle
Part III: The Bar Gamble

Buying the bar with mob money

The Blues playoff miracle and paying off the debt

Learning the business, owning the room
Part IV: The Turnaround

Lessons from the bar years

Transitioning from chaos to clarity

The land, the river, and the comeback portfolio
Part V: The Reflection

What you’d tell your younger self

Why you root for underdogs

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