It was the worst experience of my life. Much worse than when Bill Mazeroski hit a ninth-inning homer to beat the Yanks in the 1960 World Series and broke a young boy’s heart. The judge despised me, my clients, my case. Bitter and crafty, he did everything in this month-long medical malpractice trial to make sure I walked away with empty pockets. Other than my summation, I stunk. Not only was the defense attorney smarter and more skilled—he also was accommodating and affable, which made it difficult for even a miserable guy like me to hate him. And I love to hate adversaries.
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