David Caissie, MA

Senior Writer

After enduring the corporate grind for over fifteen years, David embarked on a journey of career change in 2012 via his lifelong passion—writing. Never before did he realize how much joy, fulfillment, and satisfaction that decision would bring. Since then, he has written various biographies and assisted in the writing of entrepreneurial books. David describes his decision to become a professional writer as, “The third best thing I’ve ever done, with marrying my wife and adopting my daughter being the first two!”

As a Story Terrace writer, David interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know him better by reading his autobiographical anecdote below.

Sweet Retribution for a Die-Hard New England Sports Fan

It was around 10:20 p.m., and not a word was spoken in my apartment for about three-and-a-half minutes on the night of Sunday, February 3rd in 2002. Not a word, until… the kick sailed through the uprights of the Louisiana Superdome in Super Bowl XXVI. Had the Patriots just won the Super Bowl?

Even as the kick went through and time expired, stunned silence filled the room for a few seconds after. My brother, Steve, and my friends, Wayno and Wally, as well as myself, had been lifelong, die-hard New England sports fans, so we had to allow ample time for some freakishly rare and devastating event to ruin it all.

As an eight-year-old boy with Red Sox blood flowing through my veins, I watched in tears as Bucky bleepin’ Dent hit a pop fly that seemed to ride a hurricane force wind over the Green Monster in Fenway Park, during a chilly, autumn afternoon of 1978.

In 1986, would-be hero Dave Henderson hit a two-run homer in extra innings to give the Sox a 2-run lead in Game Six of the World Series. The scoreboard at Shea Stadium had already proclaimed the Red Sox champions, offering a conciliatory congratulations. Then… call it the Curse of the Bambino, a self-fulfilling prophecy, or just garbage for luck, but fate intervened once again. I watched, brokenhearted, as a slow roller that my deceased grandmother would have stopped went dribbling through poor Billy Buckner’s aged legs.

It wasn’t really fair to lump the Patriots into the same category as the perennial chokers my beloved Red Sox were at the time, but the Pats had never won anything either, so why should I expect anything different?

Surely, the ball would just explode in mid-air, or maybe an earthquake would rattle the goal posts just enough to steer the kick wide. Perhaps aliens would pick this moment to burst through the stadium’s roof and land just before the goal line to swallow the football whole, and announce the verification of their existence for the entire world to see. But, none of that happened.

Stunned silence quickly turned to explosive celebration, as the red, white, and blue confetti covered the turf in New Orleans to verify for all of New England and the world to see. Yes, the Patriots had actually won the Super Bowl!

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