I STILL THINK ABOUT THAT SUNDAY AT THE DINER. IT WAS JUST AN OLD MAN AND HIS BREAKFAST, A QUIET FELLA NOBODY NOTICED, UNTIL THE DAY THE THUNDER ROLLED IN ON TWO WHEELS AND A DEBT OF HONOR CAME DUE RIGHT IN FRONT OF US ALL.
It was the kind of Sunday morning you could measure by the smell of coffee and bacon grease. Murphy’s Diner sat at the edge of Route 14 — a worn-out…