Writers Tricks of the Trade MARCH-APRIL 2015 | Page 32

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Life Stories

I'VE GOTTA BE ME
TONY "NAP" NAPOLI EXCERPT FROM HIS BOOK "MY FATHER, MY DON"

TONY "NAP" NAPOLI WITH
A PICTURE OF HIS FATHER

Our Life Story for this issue is the first chapter of Tony "Nap" Napoli's
compelling book My Father, My Don. This is adult reading with some violence,
but it is the raw truth. You can read the rest of Tony's story in the book. You may
notice this is longer than our feature normally is, but is so powerful it deserved
the extra space.
Tony "Nap" Napoli transitioned from a checkered past that included the Mob
and alcoholism into a life of Sobriety with the help of Spirituality, his Higher
Power. His objective has been to find a better way in life by staying sober and
through sobriety found Faith, Hope, Strength, Knowledge, and Experience. He
enjoys great satisfaction from belonging to an organization called Ring 8
Veteran Boxers Association of NY. which allows him to help indigent fighters
with financial help, medication, etc. Since July 11, 1994 he has been a
volunteer, helping Veterans to fill out the required VA forms when applying
for their service-connected disabilities benefits. He charges no fee and
it allows him to give to others and make amends for those he's harmed.

BUY

IT WAS A COLD NOVEMBER afternoon in 1993 when, in a feverish
burst of fury, I pulled the young punk's pants down to his ankles and
cut his balls off with the switchblade that he had stupidly pulled on
me.
The students and teacher crowded together in the back of the
classroom, their backs against the large map of the world. They were
probably scared that they might be next. After all, I must have looked
like some mad drunk wildly slashing a student. For what reason? How
would they know? They were just part of a freshman biology class at a
community college in New York City.
If every man has his moment of clarity, this was mine.
As I looked down at the punk-spurting blood from where no man
wants to bleed from-I thought about how he had put his filthy hands
on my daughter. He was going to pay for what he had done. And he
was going to pay for everything that I had done to everyone and for
everything that had been done to me. He was the sacrificial lamb, the
beast of burden who would take the brunt of every terrible memory I
stored inside of me. The memories were maki