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The Premier Ghostwriter for your book.
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For those of you who don't know it, we have been experiencing many low level earthquakes, sometimes two and three a day. This photo sums it all up.
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Finally it’s Here! Check Out The Movie Trailer For the New Fiction Novel
by Michael Gray  214-377-1125
With my client’s permission, I am able to say this is a project I was fortunate to work on. Check out the killer trailer! The Temporary Hero by Lt. Carr Collins. Here is the link.
The Temporary Hero - Now Available for Purchase!
Here is the advertising blurb for the book which is now available for purchase on Amazon:
The hijacking of an oil tanker off the coast of Somalia reveals an unexpected and unexplainable cargo. Discovered by a highly-trained Special Operations EOD Team sourced to take over the ship, Lieutenant John “Mako” Lang of the U.S. Navy quickly finds himself on the front lines of a fierce battle. Leading his elite unit, this warrior sees his life rocketed to fame before crashing in disgrace. Mako is then thrust into the cataclysmic plot of terrorists determined to destroy America with a single crushing blow. Fixed to the pointy end of the spear, he launches to prevent this ultimate act of treachery. From the Red Sea to the Gulf of Mexico, from Venezuela to Washington D.C., and from Cuba to San Diego, Lt. Mako Lang, the CIA, and the U.S. military scramble to unravel the plot before hell rains down on America. Complicating matters for Mako, the love of his life turns up with an unlikely influence, rekindling a fire abruptly extinguished years earlier but still smoldering. 
Every country has specialized military units they call upon when the world is on fire. These are the go to men for the United States: Naval Special Operations EOD. In today’s what-have-you-done-for-me-lately world, Lt. Mako Lang is the only man who stands in the way of this evil. He is the Temporary Hero.
You can purchase the paperback or the kindle version at
And please leave a positive review if you liked it. Thanks!
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Memoir Chapter 35
Biography of Dorothy Kunzweiler  - Based on a True Story
by Michael Gray ©  2004  214-377-1125
July 29, 1940 - Salina, Kansas
It was Sunday afternoon and was the Gray’s turn to host the occasional gathering of friends.  About every two weeks, four couples congregated at one house, playing cards, drinking home-brewed beer and catching up on gossip regarding the goings-on in the area.  Some couples brought their children over, if they had any, and plopped them down in the living room with a few toys.  One of the women kept a watchful eye on the children ensuring that they didn't get out of hand.
At this particular gathering, Dorothy had baked a ham for her contribution.  Another of the couples brought the home-brew, while the other two couples provided a baked pie, homemade bread and some oven-roasted potatoes.  Everyone was feasting and having a good time, including an extra guest, Frank Kunzweiler.  He was in town visiting his eldest daughter and checking out the local baseball team on what was a vacation away from Hattie and Kansas City.  The party was lively and much fuss was made over little David who had just turned one year old.  Dorothy let him play with some of the toys he received for his birthday; however, there weren’t many as times were tight.
During the party, Dorothy lamented about a problem with David.  Since David was their first child, she was receiving on-the-job training about all of the issues involved in raising children.  One such issue was the way David looked.  It seemed everywhere she went, people commented on what a beautiful daughter she had.  David was so cute, most passers-by thought he was a little girl.  In the early 1940’s, manufacturers did not produce a wide variety of male and female baby clothes.  It was basically one size fits all.  David was often dressed in hand-me-down gowns or dresses, which made for easier diaper changing.  With his angelic good looks and curly blonde locks, it was no wonder people mistook him for a girl.
Dorothy discussed this problem with her friends, who advised putting blue ribbons in his hair.  Another suggested that when he wore a gown or dress, she tie a belt around his waist to make him look male.  Eventually the problem solved itself, as every person with whom Dorothy was acquainted, came to recognize that David was a boy.
Frank spent long hours playing with David.  This was his second grandson as Jack Laird had been born earlier to Annabelle.  Frank had played many hours with little Jack and was now turning his attention to his older daughter’s son.  He felt closer to Dorothy than Annabelle and enjoyed showering David with love.  David crawled all over Frank, occasionally depositing drool on his shirt and trousers.  Frank didn’t mind.  He loved the closeness with David and laughed as he wiped off the slobber.
After the party was over, Dorothy cleaned up while Jack and Frank watched little David on the porch.  It was a nice evening with a slight breeze.  They smoked cigarettes and finished the rest of the home-brew left behind.  Near nine o’clock, a tired Dorothy joined them.  They all sat and talked, just watching the world go by.  It was a pleasant scene with crickets chirping and tree limbs brushing against the house.  Dorothy was content with her men, Jack, Frank and little David, all next to her.  Eventually, she kissed them each good night and went to bed early with Jack’s promise to put David to bed.
Dorothy slept comfortably all night long and awoke at her usual time.  She immediately put on some coffee as her father Frank and husband Jack would soon be up.  With the coffee percolating, she prepared a breakfast of eggs, toast and bacon.  
It was Monday morning.  Jack rose and shaved in the bathroom, preparing for work.  Frank, who was simply visiting, waited for Jack to finish in the bathroom so he could get ready for the day.  His plans were to take little David to a nearby playground and maybe find an empty baseball park to start the young boy down the right path.  Frank was looking forward to taking David around the base paths and acting like he had just hit a homer.  Even though the ballpark would be locked, Frank always knew how to get someone to open it up.  With a child in his arms, it would be a piece of cake.
Jack joined Dorothy in the kitchen and proceeded to eat breakfast.  Little David sat in a high chair watching his parents eat breakfast and drink coffee.  He was playing with some baby food Dorothy had set in front of him, busily spreading it on his face and flinging pieces around the room.  Frank replaced Jack in the bathroom, choosing to eat a little later.
Dorothy finished her meal and spent some time feeding David.  He was particularly fussy this morning and it was irritating Dorothy.  Jack, reading the morning paper, was oblivious to all.
Thump.  Dorothy, nearest the hall, wondered what that sound was.  It sounded like someone had jumped on the wooden floor.  She knew her father was in the bathroom so she thought no more about it.  But a moment later, intuition told her to look anyway.  
She walked to the hall and saw Frank lying on the floor.  He had collapsed near the bathroom.  
“Oh my God!  Dad?!  Are you okay?”  She knelt down to inspect her father.  Jack, hearing Dorothy, immediately dropped his paper and rushed to the hall.  
“Jack, help me turn him over!”  Dorothy was panicked.  She and Jack carefully rolled him over on his back.  Jack took one look at Frank’s face and realized that his father-in-law was in danger; it did not look good.  Frank’s lips had turned a ghastly shade of blue.  His cheeks were covered with red splotches.  A knot was forming on his forehead where he struck the floor and his breathing was very labored.  Jack was not a doctor but felt instinctively that Frank was near death.  Dorothy was trying to help, but she was frightened and flustered.
“Let’s get him to a hospital, now!” Jack said.  “Help me get him into the car.”  Dorothy said nothing but grabbed her father’s legs.  Jack put his arms under Frank’s arms and around his torso to bear the bulk of his weight.  Getting out the front door was a bit of a trial, especially with David screaming, enraged that his breakfast had been interrupted.  Finally, Dorothy put her father’s legs down long enough to turn and open the door.  They made their way carefully but hastily to the car, a used one they had recently purchased.  Then, together they situated Frank in the back seat of the Gray’s automobile.
Taking David with them was out of the question.  Dorothy ran next door to a neighbor and plopped him down in her living room.  David was still crying, his breakfast yet to resume, but Dorothy didn’t have time to deal with that.
The hospital was only a few miles away and Jack drove as quickly as possible, not wishing to endanger their lives as well.  Dorothy sat in the front passenger’s seat, one hand bracing herself against the dashboard while twisting around to attend to Frank, who appeared to be getting worse.  His eyelids had taken on a shiny, translucent sheen.  The stubble on his face could not cover its waxen appearance.  His labored breathing appeared to have ceased and Dorothy was stricken when she realized that she was unable to determine whether her father was breathing at all.  
When they arrived at the hospital, Dorothy ran in to summon help.  Jack went to the backseat and prepared Frank for his exit from the car.  Two orderlies ran out, one pushing a padded, four-wheeled gurney.  They transferred Frank quickly and within minutes he was strapped down and on his way into the hospital.  
Dorothy and Jack stood together, watching as the staff tended to Frank.  One man, who appeared to be a doctor, looked over Frank while a nurse took his vital signs. Dorothy was trembling all over, praying silently to herself that her father would be all right.  Perhaps it was only a concussion.  Maybe it was something he ate or drank last night.  Of course, there was no telling what was in that awful home-brew.  She conveyed these thoughts to Jack who absently nodded his agreement.
Fifteen minutes went by before something notable occurred.  The doctor and nurse appeared to be finished with their assessment of Frank.  He whispered something to the nurse, glanced briefly in the direction of Dorothy and Jack, and departed.  The nurse directed an orderly to take Frank somewhere.  The orderly grabbed the metal railing and wheeled Frank down the hall.  The nurse, clipboard in hand, went in another direction leaving Dorothy and Jack mystified.
After a twenty-minute wait, Jack and Dorothy still had heard nothing.  They decided to try to find out where the orderly had taken Frank.  No one paid them any mind as they briskly walked down the hall.  Jack inhaled the antiseptic smell, tasted it on his tongue and nearly gagged, remembering why he hated hospitals.  Dorothy took no notice, her mind focused on one question:  her father’s condition. 
They reached the end of the hall and pushed their way through the double doors.  To their surprise, the doors led to an outdoor balcony open to the outside air.  Dorothy observed several patients in the padded gurneys out on the balcony.  A few appeared to be alert and recovering from some illness or operation. However, none were attended by any medical staff.  The man closest to them acknowledged their presence by turning his head painfully to the side, attempting to make eye contact.  Dorothy ignored him, intent on locating her father.
Two stretchers away lay Frank.  A blanket was tucked under his chin ostensibly to keep him warm though it was July and plenty warm already.  Dorothy rushed over to her father saying, “Dad, can you hear me?”  There was no reply.  She looked at Jack and said, “It looks like they haven’t done a thing for him.”  Jack stood grim-faced.  He placed his hands on his wife’s shoulders, wanting to bear her up, his eyes gazing directly into Dorothy’s and said, “I’m afraid they think they have done all they can for him.”  Dorothy fought back the tears as Jack enfolded her in his arms.  She knew what her husband said was true but refused to accept it at this point.  Jack placed an arm about her and gently steered her back to the waiting room.  The only thing to do at this point was to find a seat and wait.  
Almost an hour later, the nurse with the clipboard came over to inform Dorothy that her father had passed.  Frank, her lovable, troublesome father, was gone.  Her mind turned not to the lost paychecks, or Frank’s other personal failings, but only to his love for baseball and chili.  She remembered the times they spent together in the kitchen.  The times when they tasted the hot, spicy chili and laughed, knowing Hattie and Annabelle would not touch it.  The chili would be theirs alone.  She thought only of the good things Frank meant to her.  As she looked at her husband Jack, the first real, hot tears came flowing down.  Frank Kunzweiler, age forty-nine, would now be running the bases in heaven.
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With my client’s permission, I am able to say this is a project I was fortunate to work on. Check out the killer trailer!
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From Famous Football Player to Ghostwriter
by Michael Gray ©  2014  214-377-1125
It’s safe to say no one ever had a football career like mine. No one! And it began like this…
I was a freshman in high school. It was a Monday afternoon in late August and I was standing around in a large group with dozens of fellow freshman eager to make the football team. In front of us was a chalkboard with several coaches. They were about to dish out pads and uniforms to see which one of us could be real live football players. To start off the tryouts, Coach Hanratty grabbed a piece of chalk and wrote the word T-E-A-M on the board. Then he put the chalk back down and turned to speak to us.
“I want you boys to get one thing straight: there’s no ‘I’ in team.”
Instantly my hand shot up. “Oh, oh, oh Coach, oh, oh, oh!”
“Yes what is it son?”
“Coach there is an ‘I’ in the word T-E-A-M. Really there is.”
“There is?” Coach Hanratty furrowed his brow, looked back at the word on the board then gazed at his fellow coaches. They all shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads so he turned to face me. “Okay brainiac, here’s a piece of chalk. Show me where there’s an ‘I’ in TEAM.”
Now before I continue, I have to say that up to this point my athletic abilities were pretty much zero. I’d played little league baseball and achieved some notoriety there. In fact I was famous for going through the entire season without ever having put the bat to a ball. Sure I went to the plate more times than I can count. Sure I swung at dozens—perhaps hundreds—of pitches. Unfortunately I could never even achieve a foul tip. It was pathetic. So I was famous for that.
I was also famous for a particular outfield play. On my team they stuck the most useless players far away in the outfield, since there was no way any of us had the skill to field a fly ball. None! We were essentially ball retrievers. When a ball was hit into the outfield, we simply chased it down, picked it up and threw it far as we could. Well, one rainy day they switched to a hard rubber weather baseball and some stud on the other team launched a missile to left field, where I stood. Like a hundred times before, I extended my arm and lowered my glove. This is what we all did to create the illusion for the fans that we actually had skills, and were actually going to catch the ball. In reality we would stand there waiting until the ball hit the turf and raced past us. Then we would turn tail and run after it. This routine happened fifteen to twenty times each game. Before I could fully extend my arm to lend reality to the impression that I was intent on catching it, for some reason the ball decided to lodge right inside the crook of my bent elbow. Not my glove mind you, my elbow. And it stuck there somehow. Instantly the crowd erupted in shock cheering for the only ball that would be caught in the outfield that entire season. As for me I ran forward until a shortstop came trotting out to remove the ball from my arm. When he did, waves of pain finally began to reach my stunned brain. I looked at the widening red welts forming on my arm sure that at some point amputation would be my only option. For the next week my inner arm sported a red and purple tattoo with laces and everything. Now I was famous for two things.
But the final part of my baseball fame occurred on a Saturday afternoon game in perfect conditions. As usual I was in left field standing there in brilliantly white cotton pants because we were the home team. This particular inning was brutal, with runners rounding the bases like coins in a slot machine. At some point I lost interest, mainly because I had to pee real bad. All I could think about was that game at the county fair where you try to squirt water into a clown’s mouth as he blows up a balloon. My bladder felt like that flimsy balloon. So there I stood bouncing up and down, clenching my knees together and praying for three outs.
Then as hundreds—and I mean hundreds—of baseball players, families and fans streamed by the foul line to the baseball complex, for some reason I decided to just let it go. The warm urine felt good as my about-to-explode-bladder relieved itself. Suddenly, as several kids began laughing out loud and telling their friends to look at the outfielder with damp yellow streaks on his pants, I realized that perhaps peeing in white pants wasn’t the best option. The long trot to the dugout brought even more laughter from the umpires, my teammates and just about every human being around except my parents. They were busy looking into the cost of having their faces rearranged and maybe applying for the witness protection program.
So with that rich athletic legacy I approached the board, taking the chalk from Coach Hanratty’s strong, sunburned hand. It was a hand I was sure had paddled many an ass. “Coach it’s right here. M-E.” I circled to the two letters then wrote the word ME on the board. “Coach, ME is a first person singular pronoun just like I. They’re like brothers and sisters or maybe because we’re here on a football field, more like teammates. They’re different as compared to a possessive pronoun such as MINE or MYSELF. Or even a pronoun used as a possessive adjective like MY. So you see Coach, there is an I in team. It’s ME.”
I stood back to let them soak up the brilliance of everything I had just said. Several classmates snickered and elbowed each other while the coaches all stared in amazement.
Finally Coach Hanratty looked directly at me and said, “What’s your name son?”
“Gray. Michael Gray.”
“Okay Michael Gray. Are you left-handed or right-handed?
“Right-handed Coach.”
“Super, because I got a great position for you. Coach Reynolds, we need an out don’t we?”
Coach Reynolds removed his index finger from his right nostril, inspected that which he’d mined from the depths and said, “Yes I believe we do.” 
My heart was about to explode from my chest. I held my breath because I was about to make the football team. My mom and dad would be freaking out if they knew, especially my dad who was a captain on his high school football team and apparently a BMOC (Big Man On Campus). His picture was in the papers because I’d seen all of them in a scrapbook. He was big, tough and mean. Now, I was about to follow in his large footsteps.
Coach Hanratty rubbed his chin, “Hmmm, let’s see…with a righty, you’ll have to be on the left side. Yeah left side. So Michael guess what? I’m putting you on the team. You’re gonna be a left out. Got it? You’re left out!”
“Yes Coach,” I said smiling from ear to ear. “I promise I won’t let you down.”
Coach Hanratty grinned. “You mean ME won’t let you down.” I nodded unsure of what he was actually saying. “‘Cus ain’t that a form of I?”
“Yes Coach,” I responded still wanting to jump for joy. “It sure is.”
“Good, good. Coach Reynolds, take Michael Gray and show him his new job. You know…the one with the polish.”
Coach Reynolds grinned. “Oh yeah that one. Yes sir.”
I was on cloud nine as I followed Coach Reynolds into the locker room. There in a large basket were dozens of old footballs. We walked up to the basket and looked at them.
“Listen here Gray, see these footballs? They’re worn-out, completely worthless. They’re now yours. All yours. Do you get that?”
I nodded.
“Whose are they?”
“Exactly. They’re yours. Now your job is to put this balm on each one first, then let ‘em dry. Once they’re dry you’ll apply this brown polish and buff ‘em with this rag until they look new. Understand?”
Again I nodded. “So this is your job description: you are gonna turn your worthless balls into something we can use. Okay?”
“Okay Coach.”
“I don’t want to see you or your worthless balls again until we can play with them. Got it?”
“Yes Coach, I got it. I won’t let you down.”
As he turned to go I wasn’t sure how polishing balls was going to help me score touchdowns, but I figured maybe this was a drill to get me used to handling a football so I wouldn’t fumble. With my poor athletic history, I decided not to think too much and instead focus on the task at hand. After all, these guys knew what they were doing.
That evening I told my mother I had made the team. She was extremely excited. My father was out of town on a business trip and wouldn’t be home until Friday, but I knew he would be pumped to learn I’d made the team. Both of us grinned with excitement at being able to tell Dad the good news. 
Each day after class I dutifully polished and shined those footballs. And each evening I went home to a mother beaming with pride. On Thursday, I came home and saw Mom making her famous chicken fried steak. This was a special treat; I wondered what was up.
“Your father will be home shortly,” she said. “His trip ended early. I thought I’d make chicken fried steak to celebrate your good news.”
“Great idea Mom!” I could hardly wait.
Around 7 p.m. Dad came in the through the garage door dragging his briefcase, his tie loosened to his navel and sweat rings fanning out from his armpits. He looked like he had just run a corporate marathon and missed first place by an inch. With his head hung low, he walked into the kitchen and spotted the chicken fried steak sizzling and popping in the skillet. As the smell hit his nostrils he somewhat revived. Then he looked up and saw my mother wearing a massive smile. 
“What’s up with the special meal?”
“Michael has some news for you.” She was practically giddy.
He turned to look at me and remembered I had football tryouts four days ago. Instantly he was standing taller. “What is it? Tell me!” 
I could see he was cautiously optimistic his son was about to be a football stud. So I decided to spill the beans. “Well Dad, I made the football team!”
“What?!” I figured at that moment he was recalling the never-hitting-a-baseball failure, the-catching-a-ball-in-my-elbow trick and the pissing-my-white-baseball-pants embarrassment and was about to take an industrial sized can of whiteout and forget it all. “You did? Fantastic! Let me change out of my clothes and you can tell me all about it during dinner.”
In a split second he was toting his briefcase like a football, running through the house, and hurdling furniture. He was a new man.
In three minutes flat Dad had changed clothes, used the restroom and was seated at the head of the table looking at the delicious chicken fried steak, gravy, green beans and cornbread he was about devour as a victory celebration. It was truly a feast. My younger sister sat opposite me as we all dished in.
Once Dad had loaded his plate with a large chicken fried steak, he turned to me and said, “Okay, I want to know all about it. And don’t leave out one single detail. Not one!”
I started from the beginning and told both him and Mom how the week had gone. I told the story in excruciating detail. In a matter of minutes the huge smiles on their faces turned flat, the lights in their eyes grew dim and deep frowns settled in. I began to notice the knuckles on Dad’s right hand—the hand that gripped the steak knife. They were turning white under a death-grip. I also noticed he was now staring straight ahead—maybe at some dot on the wall—while cutting the same piece of steak over and over until the knife began wearing a groove in the ceramic plate. His jaw clenched barely allowing oxygen to enter his windpipe. When I finally finished the tale, Dad pushed his plate back and sighed heavily to stifle his gag reflex. His face bore a ghastly green shade of throw up.
I continued to eat as content as I always was and eventually finished. After the meal, Dad pulled me into his study and tried to conjure up a smile on his otherwise dark and grim face. “Michael, I want you to do your ‘ole man a huge favor.”
I nodded. “Sure dad, anything.”
“Son, I want you to stop going to football practice. Okay? Don’t go there anymore. Understand?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But how am I gonna play football?
“Listen, I have some other ideas about that. But just trust your dad, okay?”
“Okay sure, whatever you say. I’ll stop going.”
“Good, now go and get your homework done.”
I left his study and went to my room. About thirty minutes later I needed lead for my mechanical pencil and left my bedroom to go to Dad’s study where he kept a supply. As I walked closer, I could hear my mother and father talking about me. I decided to slow up and see what they were saying.
“…but David his hands were so dirty every night. I thought for sure he had been practicing. I had no idea it was brown shoe polish.”
“Look, I’m not blaming you. It’s just that I’m upset. Very upset. I mean do you realize if he studies real hard, applies himself a hundred percent and I mean one freaking hundred percent, our son—our only son—may work himself up to a job where he can slop hot tar on a roof. Or maybe, just maybe he can stick that hose in those Porta-Potties and be a cleaner for Ricky’s company. That’s a big if because even that job requires you to know which end is up!”
“Oh David it’s not that bad…is it?”
And thus ended my illustrious football career. Apparently there is an I in IDIOT.
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Memoir Chapter 34
Biography of Dorothy Kunzweiler  - Based on a True Story
by Michael Gray ©  2004  214-377-1125
Dorothy Remembers
Jack was not very tidy around the house.  He would come home from work and immediately start taking off his clothes.  He had to wear a coat and tie to work, so when he came through the front door, he would neither say hello nor kiss my foot -- nothing.  He would drape his shirt and tie across the bar stool.  Then he would walk through the swinging doors into the kitchen and get himself a beer -- every night, without fail.  
I was brought up to be very neat and particular.  Jack, on the other hand, was totally spoiled as the only boy with three sisters in an Irish family.  Well, one time he left his sock in the middle of the living room floor, and I decided I was not going to pick it up.  I had had it up to here with him leaving dirty clothes all around.  That sock was there so long that it was getting dirty and stiff.  
Several days later, he invited some friends over.  I decided I was going to leave that sock lying there, just to embarrass him.  I thought that when his friends came into the house, I would secretly pull them aside and tell them that he leaves his clothes everywhere and let them see just how messy he was.  This would put him in the wrong.
The doorbell rang and he beat me to the door.  He secretly told his friends, “I want to tell you something about my wife.  I deliberately left a sock in the living room floor for seven days to see if she would ever pick it up.  Don’t mention it to her or even look at it.  Just ignore the sock.”  By the time I got to them, they wouldn’t listen to me and there was nothing I could say.  He had already done the damage.  He was always two to three steps ahead of me through our entire marriage.  
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Recently I enrolled a 3-year-old in my Texas Ghostwriter Special Sales Training Program. A million hits later on YouTube and I think we can all agree this kid is going places. Thanks bro, you complete me.

Three year old arguing with his mother
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Memoir Chapter 33
Biography of Dorothy Kunzweiler  - Based on a True Story
by Michael Gray ©  2004  214-377-1125
April 23, 1923 – Kansas City, Missouri
Little Jack Gray kept his place in the stands, impatiently waiting for his team to come up to bat.  It was a close game, 4 to 3, but Jack’s team was losing.  At ten years old, he knew all of the players on his local club team, the Kansas City Southern team of the M and J League.  It was the bottom of the eighth and he knew it was time for his team to drive in a couple of runs.  Young Jack screamed at the pitcher, C. C. Wells, exhorting him to pitch harder.  Of course the pitcher could not hear him.  Jack’s mother Esther, however, did hear him and told him to quiet down.  Yelling at the pitcher would be to no avail.
Several minutes later Jack’s father David returned to his seat with more hot roasted peanuts.  He and Jack shared them, cracking the shells and letting them fall to the ground.  The peanuts tasted good and warm to Jack’s tongue; he was content.  
Finally, K. C. Southern retired their opponent and prepared to bat.  Jack squirmed in his seat, hoping for the best as the first batter up was Frank Kunzweiler.  Frank was skilled at getting base hits.  He was not inclined to hit many homeruns, as he had clean-up men behind him to do that.  His responsibility was merely to get on base.
The first two pitches were balls.  Jack cheered at the favorable calls, occasionally standing to see over the spectators in front of him.  The next pitch came in smoking, hard and inside.  Frank tried to hit the ball straight but it glanced off his bat, popping straight up, high into the sky.  Jack looked up as the ball was headed their way.  His father stood up and little Jack followed his lead.  Esther looked away, shielding her head with her arms, Jack’s sisters doing likewise.
The ball hit just behind Jack but deflected off several hands.  One fan swatted at it in vain and forced it to the ground.  Jack immediately dove to the wooden floor of the stands, frantically searching for the ball.  His pants scuffed at the knees as he looked this way and that.  The ten-year-old was lost among a sea of humanity.  Suddenly, the ball appeared underneath a seat.  Jack spotted it, as did another youngster.  They both pounced on it with Jack using both of his hands.  The two boys briefly struggled.  A second later another hand appeared reaching for the ball.  It was an adult hand but it came up empty.
Jack pulled away from the pile and rose, ball in hand, triumphant from his battle.  Esther, recovering from the shock at possibly being injured, took in her son’s big smile.  David, his father, patted Jack’s back, congratulating him for a job well done and looked at the crowd around them.  They were smiling at Jack’s good fortune and yet somewhat disappointed with their own misfortune.  A man behind Jack also patted him on the shoulder congratulating him.  Jack held the ball up for everyone to see.  After that, he sat down and the crowd resumed to watching Frank Kunzweiler bat.
Eight rows back, a young girl looked at Jack holding a ball that came from her father’s bat.  It amazed young Dorothy Kunzweiler that anyone should value a baseball from her father’s bat.  She had dozens of such balls at home if anyone had ever cared to ask her.  She studied the young boy holding the ball up.  He had dark hair and bright blue eyes.  Fifteen years later, Dorothy and the young boy holding up the ball would be in St. Louis enjoying baseball games and preparing for a trip to Hawaii.
Another interesting aspect of this game was that a few rows away, Henry Burden and his wife Elizabeth sat watching this spectacle.  Like Dorothy, they also observed the young boy holding up the ball.  They thought he was cute as he smiled widely displaying his trophy.  Henry, hailing from England and having come over on the ship La Mirabelle, had taken in dozens of baseball games.  Elizabeth, being American, had also seen her share of ball games.  In fact, Henry and Elizabeth had been married for thirty-four years and made it a point each year to see as many baseball games as they could.  As there were very few other diversions, baseball was clearly America’s favorite past time.
Because the ball was not hit near Dorothy, Henry did not notice Dorothy’s mother, Hattie Mae Kunzweiler, sitting there seeing and being seen, like a beacon shining for all eternity.  Hattie’s faux jewelry and perfect make-up was enough for any of the male fans’ wandering eyes to pick up.  Henry, even though he had seen Hattie when she was a baby and as recently as two years ago when he and Elizabeth visited her house, simply did not pick up this brilliant vision.  Many years later, he would correspond to Hattie about Elizabeth’s death, and a long distance romance would commence.  But none of this was a consideration on this clear April day.  All anyone thought about was watching a good baseball game that K. C. Southern eventually won.  And little Jack Gray walked out with a baseball as the souvenir of the day.  Two years later, his friend Tommy Pilett would hit the ball so far, it would be lost forever in the woods.  By that time, Jack had other balls and cared very little for its loss; nor did he remember which batter had hit it.
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How Do I Find A Ghostwriter?
by Michael Gray  214-377-1125
Besides standing on your front porch and screaming, “I want a ghostwriter!” how do you find a high quality professional ghost writer? 
I receive a lot of business from referrals which is somewhat surprising since I keep a client’s project confidential. Apparently they are telling their close friends. So because of this a good place to start is to ask people you know. If you know someone who has written a book, try asking them. There is a good chance they had some help. The next step is probably doing a search on the Internet by typing “ghost writer” or “ghostwriter”. If you want someone in your area, type “ghost writer in Dallas” or “Ghostwriter in Fort Worth”. 
Ghost writers can be found listed in directories under “professional writers” “freelance writers” and “publishing”. Occasionally we are listed under “publishing services.” Avoid ghost removal services and ghost detection equipment unless you have a different kind of need.
Finding the right ghost writer that can work with you and produce the product you are looking for is very important. Of course if you ever need a good ghostwriter, please give me a call at 214-377-1125.
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What’s the Difference between a Ghost Writer and a Ghostwriter?
by Michael Gray  214-377-1125
It’s a question I’m asked all the time: What’s the difference between a Ghost Writer and a Ghostwriter? When I started ghostwriting, I thought the proper spelling was Ghostwriter. I assumed a Ghost Writer was someone who wrote about ghosts. Apparently I wasn’t alone because about four times a year I receive a call asking if I investigate ghosts, write about them and sometimes even ask me if I would come out and see their haunted (fill-in-the-blank). I always have to decline because I don’t have the proper equipment assuming there is proper equipment.
In looking through various dictionaries, it appears what I do for a living can be spelled either way: ghost writer or ghostwriter. So, in the real world there isn’t any difference. Feel free to spell it however you like.
Since a ghost writer doesn’t investigate ghosts, what a ghostwriter one do? Well, I write a client’s memoir, life story, fiction novel or any other book the client wants written. If the client wants a business book or expert book, I write those to. I have worked on children’s books, pet books (which I really love) and self-help books. I get a lot of Christian projects so when I’m writing a Christian book I’m actually a Holy Ghost Writer (feel free to laugh out loud at this point).
Some ghostwriters draft business memos and letters for executives as well as government grants. I don’t do any of that work because I love to work on books. Just books.
So next time you see the term ghost writer or ghostwriter, now you know what how it works. And of course if you ever need one, please give me a call at 214-377-1125.
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