Connor held that patch the entire time he testified. When he walked out of the courtroom, the bikers were there. Robert scooped him up in a massive hug. “You did so good, buddy. So brave. We’re proud of you.”
That was two years ago. Connor is ten now. He still has some issues from the head injury—headaches, occasional memory problems—but he’s thriving. He’s in fifth grade. Plays little league. Has lots of friends.
Robert, Marcus, Thomas, and David became family. They come to birthday parties. Help with homework. Taught Connor how to fish. Took him to his first football game.
When Connor had nightmares about the accident—and he had many—one of them was always just a phone call away. Marcus drove forty-five minutes in the middle of the night once because Connor woke up screaming and asked if his “biker uncle” could come over.
Marcus stayed until morning. Sat in the chair next to Connor’s bed. Made sure he felt safe.
Last year, Connor wrote an essay for school about his heroes. He didn’t write about athletes or movie stars or superheroes.
He wrote about four bikers who saved his life.
“People think bikers are scary,” he wrote. “But my biker uncles are the bravest, kindest people I know. They saved me when a bad person tried to hurt me. They stayed with me in the hospital. They protected me and my mom. They showed me that real heroes don’t wear capes. They wear leather vests.”
His teacher called me crying after she read it.Continue reading…
