CHAPTER 1

Linda Sorrentino (Mama Peaches), Mike’s mother:

Mike and I both almost died during his birth. It’s a miracle we even made it that far.

When I got pregnant with Mike in the fall of 1980, both his father and I were incredibly excited. We had two boys already, and we just knew this would finally be our little girl. But nothing with this pregnancy would go as planned.

Early on, I started to bleed and have pains, and my doctor informed me there was a good chance I would miscarry. I was devastated to think that I could lose this baby before it even had a chance at life. But as the months went on and I maintained strict bedrest, I became more optimistic that the pregnancy would go to full term.

It was already hot and sticky the morning of the Fourth of July in 1981 as my husband and I discussed our plans for the day; we would be attending a family barbeque celebrating Independence Day. I was eating breakfast when the phone rang, and as I stood to answer it, I felt fluid pouring out of me. I assumed my water had broken, but when I looked down, I saw a massive amount of blood on the kitchen floor. I was hemorrhaging.

When I got to the hospital, they placed me in a bed with my feet in the air and my head toward the ground in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Though I wasn’t in labor, they told me they had to get the baby out and scheduled an emergency C-section.

When I woke from the general anesthesia, I was told that my baby was in intensive care and had been born blue for lack of oxygen. They said I had lost so much blood that a transfusion was needed. My placenta had partially ripped, and the doctors said that if it had fully torn away, both my son and I would have died. For the next several days, I was on very strong painkillers and unable to see my baby while we both recovered from the trauma.

I remember when it was finally time to leave the hospital and go home, a nurse came up to me. “What did you name your little boy?” she asked with a smile on her face.

“Michael Paul,” I answered proudly. The change in her expression surprised me.

“Are you sure you want to name him that?” she said.

“Of course. Why?”

“Michaels are known for being very active and aggressive,” she answered.

I scoffed. “Oh, that’s not true,” I said, pushing my bundle of joy toward the exit, ready to get home to my family.

For a while, the nurse’s ominous comments carried no weight. Thankfully, Mike was a very good baby. My other two boys, Frank, six years old at the time, and Marc, two, were much more rambunctious at that age. As a baby and younger child, Mike was incredibly calm. I could place him in his playpen with a few toys, and he would sit for hours, playing silently. I actually asked his pediatrician if something was wrong with Mike because I wasn’t used to such an easygoing boy. The doctor laughed and said that was just his personality. Calm and quiet. He told me to enjoy it, so I did.

Mike was such a sweet little boy. I remember when his cousin, a little girl six months older than him, would come over to play, she’d take his toys away. Most kids would get mad or grab them back, but Mike would just sit there and look at her, as if communicating, “Okay, go ahead. You can take those.” He wouldn’t cry or try to fight her.

That all changed sometime in middle school. My tranquil and shy boy became outgoing, assertive, and mischievous. He was always into something, though never anything too malicious. He was a prankster who was popular and extroverted with lots of friends. Our house was the neighborhood hangout with kids of all ages coming and going constantly. Usually, they were up to some shenanigans. Throughout Mike’s childhood, we received plenty of calls about his behavior from teachers and principals.

I remember once in high school, Mike was tired of waiting for the traffic jam leaving campus to clear, so he decided to jump the curb with his white Isuzu Ro