Picking Up My Shattered Pieces: Bouncing Back When Life Throws You a Curve Ball

By Gina Pastore and Dennis Prager

Gina Pastore's life changed in an instant! She never dreamed the title of her husband's book Shattered would happen to her. After all, she and Frank were childhood sweethearts whose lives unfolded like a Hollywood movie: he found fame pitching for the Cincinnati Reds; she tended to the home fires with a son and daughter. It was during Fr

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Core Media Group, Inc.
• Release date: May 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732370128

Book preview

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Gina Pastore

with Mike Yorkey

Foreword by talk show host Dennis Prager

Afterword by Boston Red Sox pitcher

Steven Wright

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Picking Up My Shattered Pieces:

Bouncing Back When Life Throws You a Curve Ball

For bulk purchases of Picking Up My Shattered Pieces, please contact Gina Pastore through her Facebook page: Gina Pastore Radio

Copyright © 2018 by Gina Pastore

Published by The Core Media Group, Inc., P.O. Box 2037, Indian Trail, NC 28079

Cover & Interior Design: Nadia Guy

Baseball Image: Used by permission from the Cincinnati Reds

Paperback ISBN 978-0-9983935-8-2

eBook ISBN 978-1-7323701-2-8

All rights reserved. This book is protected by the copyright laws of the United States of America. This book may not be copied or reprinted for commercial gain or profit. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of Gina Pastore.

Unless otherwise indicated, scripture quotations in this book are taken from the The Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®, Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

In Chapter 10, excerpts from the book, Shattered: Struck Down, But Not Destroyed by Frank Pastore, published by Focus on the Family, are used by permission of the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America.

Dedication

To my children Frank and Christina, you are a legacy beyond words, and I’m deeply honored to be your mom.

Contents

Foreword by Dennis Prager, host of the Dennis Prager Show

1. Memories of a Weekend

2. A Kiss Goodbye

3. Waiting for the Call

4. Hope Against Hope

5. Back to the Beginning

6. Turning Heads

7. A Glimpse into the Future

8. Back in Town

9. A Different Kind of Proposal

10. The Craziest Story Ever

11. On the Lam

12. Will Somebody Finally Marry Us?

13. Introductions Are in Order

14. Not a Good Deed

15. Major League in Every Way

16. Striking a Deal

17. Shattered

18. Transition Time

19. Pick-Off Move

20. The Foreshadowing

21. Aftermath

22. The Passing

23. Saying Goodbye

24. There Is a Season

25. Reflections

Afterword by Steven Wright, pitcher for the Boston Red Sox

Acknowledgments

Source Material

About the Authors

Invite Gina Pastore to Speak Today

Foreword

by Dennis Prager, host of the Dennis Prager Show

I am honored that Gina Pastore asked me to write the foreword to this remarkable, riveting, touching, tragic yet inspiring book.

I am honored because Gina is a great woman. And she was married to a great man.

Let me tell you a little about Frank Pastore. I saw Frank virtually every weekday of the year. We shared the same radio studio to broadcast our radio shows: my nationally syndicated radio talk show, broadcast weekday mornings; and Frank’s enormously popular talk show heard weekday afternoons on KKLA 99.5 FM in Los Angeles.

Over the course of time, I came to realize that Frank was a very special man. I should emphasize that I’m not of the everyone is very special school of thought. Yes, we are all precious in God’s eyes, but a few people stand out as truly unique and gifted. Frank was one of the finest minds in America.

But he was more than that. Frank didn’t merely have a fine mind; he had the rarest of minds—an original mind. In every generation, it seems, God or nature gives us a few truly original minds. The number I have known can be counted on one hand.

I was so taken with both Frank’s mind and his ability to clearly express his thoughts that I invited him to present videos arguing for God’s existence on my non-profit educational website, PragerU. Because of PragerU’s popularity—the website will surpass half a billion views this year—everyone we have ever invited has agreed to give a course. We have professors from Stanford, MIT, and Harvard, Pulitzer Prize winners, major theologians, philosophers, scientists, and former prime ministers. Yet who did I invite to give courses on God’s existence?

Of all the theologians and philosophers in the world, I asked a former major league baseball player named Frank Pastore to do so. I even thought Frank would do this better than I would—and I have been arguing God’s existence for over forty years.

Turns out I was right. The videos Frank made are brilliant, original, and delivered with his unique combination of charisma, energy, and charm. Frank’s ability to apply faith and reason to global and personal issues alike was a gift that our increasingly godless and morally confused society badly needs.

Everyone who heard Frank was blessed to hear him, and by everyone, I mean everyone of any faith or no faith. I am a religious Jew, and I loved listening to Frank.

This is why I am so touched by Gina’s powerful book, which tells the rest of the story. She was the love of Frank’s life, and I know that because he would always light up when he mentioned her. When you read Picking Up My Shattered Pieces, you will understand why Frank and Gina were such a remarkable couple.

And you will understand why I began with what I did: Gina is a great woman, and she was married to a great man.

1 - Memories of a Weekend

I remember our last weekend together because we did nothing—and yet we did everything.

My husband, Frank Pastore, and I woke up that Saturday morning to moisture-laden clouds atop the San Gabriel Mountains a few miles from our home in Upland, California, located thirty-five miles east of downtown Los Angeles. Upland, a foothill community of 75,000, was my hometown, where I was born and raised.

Frank and I had dwelled in the same comfortable three-bedroom rancher for thirty-one years, building a life together and raising a son and a daughter who’d grown up, gotten college educations, and married wonderful Christian spouses. Our oldest child, Frank, Jr., and his wife, Jessica, had presented us with a grandchild, starting the cycle of life all over again.

Now we were in the latest chapter of this crazy thing called life: Frank was in his mid-fifties, and I had just celebrated my fiftieth birthday—childhood sweethearts traveling the open road, wherever God was leading us.

Frank was the host of the Frank Pastore Show, a radio talk show heard weekdays from 4-to-7 p.m. on KKLA 99.5 FM, the most-listened-to Christian radio station in the United States. According to listenership surveys, around a million people each week tuned in to hear Frank interview guests as well as engage listeners who called in to ask a question, stand on a soapbox, or vent their frustration and anger.

I was Frank’s wife and a homemaker, twin titles I wore with great pride. Although Frank was in the public eye—and had been since before we got married thirty-four years earlier—we functioned like a well-practiced team. Frank, who was starting his tenth year at KKLA, was a much-in-demand speaker at churches in Southern California and occasionally out-of-state. The last thing Frank wanted to do was travel without me—like he did when he pitched eight seasons in major league baseball.

On many Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings, we’d hop in our gold Ford Escape and drive to churches near and far, where Frank would share how he was a lifelong atheist whose life was shattered physically and emotionally until he discovered life’s greatest treasures: faith and family. I loved being Frank’s partner in ministry.

On this weekend leading up to the Thanksgiving holiday, however, Frank wasn’t booked—a rare weekend off. Whenever that happened, our son Frankie and Jessica usually drove an hour from their home in Riverside County to visit us, which we encouraged. We loved seeing our only grandchild, Michael, who was in the midst of his energetic toddler years.

But Frankie and Jessica—who was five months pregnant and expecting another boy—had other plans that weekend. That was fine with us because we knew we’d be getting together a few days later when they would be hosting Thanksgiving dinner for us as well as our daughter, Christina, and her husband, Josh. Frank and I were looking forward to spending a long holiday weekend at Frankie and Jessica’s home.

While we loved seeing our adult kids and their spouses, Frank often told me that he loved being alone with me on weekends. I get my girlfriend all to myself! he’d exclaim. Frank loved giving people close to him a nickname, a holdover from his time in baseball, I suppose. He cracked a big smile every time he called me his girlfriend. This term of endearment was his way of keeping our relationship young. He never wanted our relationship to get old and stale.

When we got up that Saturday morning, I remember Frank stretching his large frame while he held a cup of coffee, mixed with 2 percent milk and sweetened with Splenda, and looking through our sliding glass doors at the dark clouds covering Mount Baldy beyond the backyard fence. Gina, since it looks like a yucky day, what do you think of putting up the Christmas tree early? he asked out of the blue.

That’s a great idea! I couldn’t recall ever putting up our Christmas tree before carving the turkey—we kept our fake tree in the attic eleven months a year—but the thought of getting ahead of the busy holiday season appealed to me.

We set ourselves to the task. Down came the artificial tree and boxes of ornaments—each with a priceless memory. We got the tree up with all the trimmings, as well as a green wreath with a gold bow on the front door. Then I sized up what Christmas 2012 was looking like in the Pastore house. To my eye, the holiday spirit needed some freshening up.

I need to go to Hobby Lobby to get a few more decorations, I announced.

I didn’t expect Frank to join me; he wasn’t the type to frequent arts and crafts stores. But today was different. I’ve never been to Hobby Lobby, he said, so I’d like to see what all the fuss is about!

We were both hungry, so before we left the house, I made Frank his favorite omelet with onion, tomatoes, and cheese, topped with ripe avocado.

Having the entire day to ourselves—unrushed, unhurried, and unfettered—felt like a treat because just us weekends didn’t happen very often.

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After I cleaned up the lunch dishes, we drove to a nearby Hobby Lobby. Walking past the model section, Frank spotted a kit for the New Bedford Whaler. Frank always had a thing for the great sailing ships of the 18th and 19th centuries with their intricate masts and billowing sails. There was a time early in our marriage when his off-season hobby was gluing and painting models of famous ships like the USS Constitution and HMS Surprise.

"I’m going to put this New Bedford Whaler model together with Michael," he said.

But Michael is only three years old, I said, being practical.

I know. But it’s something we can do together.

I laughed because that was Frank being Frank—someone who loved making memories. Okay, maybe Michael was too young to build a model ship, but he’d be old enough one day, right?

We purchased the model ship and a few more Christmas decorations, and then drove home on damp streets. The weather had turned cool with intermittent showers, which Frank and I savored, since rainy afternoons were few and far between. After the raindrops eased up, he sat down next to our backyard fire pit, put his boots up, and looked out at the rugged San Gabriel Mountains.

You want a coffee? I asked from the kitchen, knowing what the answer would be. The slider doors were open to the patio and backyard.

Sure. That would be great, honey.

I busied myself in the kitchen. I filled our Krups coffee maker with Starbucks coffee beans. Frank loved caffeine, but most of the time I mixed caffeinated and decaffeinated beans to take the edge off. Caffeinated coffee didn’t bother Frank’s sleep, but I’d stay up half the night if I drank the high-octane stuff.

Then I heard Frank talking to himself—loud enough that he knew I could hear him in the kitchen.

I’ve had such a wonderful life, he said in a clearly audible voice to no one in particular. I got to marry my girlfriend. We’ve had a great marriage. We got to have two children. Our kids married wonderful people. I’m so thankful. I really am.

I was touched hearing him utter these thoughts. Then he turned from the fire pit and looked in my direction. Gina, come out and sit here!

I looked up and smiled. I will, honey. As soon as I finish making the coffee.

When I was done, I carried out his favorite white Starbucks mug and a cup of coffee for myself. I plunked myself into a patio chair and teased him a bit. I heard what you were saying. Are you going to die or something?

My husband smiled. All he said was, I’m just so thankful for my life.

Frank changed the subject and asked me if I wanted to go out for dinner. After a busy day putting up the tree and shopping, a Saturday night without cooking sounded great to me.

Sure. Where do you want to go?

How about The Heights?

The Heights was a nicer Upland restaurant known for its burgers, steaks, ribs, and chops with a marvelous view of the gorgeous valley as well as generous portions—kind of like a Cheesecake Factory. I knew the real reason why Frank wanted to go to The Heights—to order the Macadamia Nut-Crusted Mahi-Mahi. I didn’t like fish and never cooked mahi-mahi or salmon at home because the fishy smell did a number on my stomach.

I immediately said yes. During the short drive, big, white clouds filled the horizon, illuminated by a crescent moon, which made the evening feel romantic. We barely looked at the menus: Frank requested his nut-crusted mahi-mahi, and I ordered a Tuscany chicken dish with a glass of Pinot Grigio. Frank refrained from joining me in a glass of wine, however. He only drank occasionally, but he toasted us with a gleam in his eye, clinking his sweating water glass with my flute of light, fruity white wine.

We had a wonderful evening of conversation and relaxation, and I treasured our time together. When we got in the car for the drive home, he leaned over, cupped my face, and planted a tender kiss on my lips. Look at the sky tonight, he said, and I did. Puffy white clouds still lit the evening sky—totally idyllic.

And when we got home and went to bed, we loved each other tenderly and warmly, as befitting such a special evening.

We woke up on Sunday morning with no agenda, which was another blessing. Ever since his autobiography, Shattered, had been released two years earlier, Frank said yes way too frequently to speaking requests at various churches throughout Southern California. Speaking on the weekend fatigued him because that meant no days off that week. Since we were free on this particular Sunday morning, however, we could attend Calvary Chapel Chino Valley, our church home for twenty-five years, and replenish our spiritual tanks.

Upon our arrival inside the sanctuary, we learned that our longtime pastor, David Rosales, wasn’t going to be in the pulpit. Instead, a touring ministry known as Potter’s Field would be demonstrating the power of the Gospel through a potter’s wheel. While Mike Rozell worked a seventy-five-pound chunk of clay, his wife, Pam, sang uplifting songs, giving a powerful presentation of how God, the master potter, carefully molds our lives and transforms our character so that we can be His vessel.

We loved the Potter’s Field ministry and knew it well. In fact, we’d seen them do their presentation live at least four times. When Frank realized that our regular pastor wasn’t preaching that morning, he was disappointed. I was hoping to hear Pastor David this morning, he said as we settled into our seats.

Maybe the Lord wants us to hear this message again, Frank, I offered.

My husband thought a moment. I suppose you’re right.

We sat there, and as I expected, we were ministered to. Frank and I both teared up toward the end when Mike applied crimson red paint on top of the shaped vase. I quietly wondered what transformation God might have in store for my life.

When the 10:45 service was over, I grabbed my husband’s right arm and led him out a side door. By and large, the several thousand people who attended the Sunday morning services were polite and didn’t bug Frank. When well-meaning folks cornered Frank to have a word with him, however, our departure was stretched by a half hour to forty-five minutes. Frank was too polite to cut anyone off, but as the noon hour dragged on, we were famished. We only had a snack with our morning coffee.

Whaddya say we go check out that new place on Foothill Boulevard—Sammy’s Café? Frank suggested.

I would have been happy going home and making another cheese-and-avocado omelet, but I could tell that he had his heart set on eating out.

Sammy’s Café was a mom-and-pop diner with everything from sandwiches and salads to burritos and pasta—home-style meals but nothing fancy. Frank scanned the extensive menu and noticed the senior citizen specials for those fifty-five and older.

Frank had celebrated his double-nickel birthday a few months earlier in August, so maybe the fact that he qualified for a geezer discount amused him. I’ve always wanted to order the senior bacon-and-eggs special, he said.

I looked at the menu description—two eggs cooked to order, two bacon strips, toast, choice of potatoes, and half waffle for only $5.99—and laughed.

Frank, that sounds like a lot of food, but at that price, it won’t be very big.

I’ll start with one, and if I’m still hungry, I’ll order another one! Frank said.

Frank paid attention to what he ate and was big on eating healthy, but he also had a weakness for comfort food—and could really pack it away if he put his mind to it. He was a big guy at 6 feet, 2 inches, and like many middle-aged men with a slower metabolism, he carried a generous girth that broadcast his 245 pounds. Frank had a standing rule: when he tipped the scales at 250 pounds, he limited himself to salads and veggies. Since Frank was nearing his self-imposed boundary, Sunday brunch in a diner would be a splurge.

Sure enough, when his order came out, Frank took one look at the senior portions and realized I was right. You better bring me another bacon-and-eggs special, he informed our waitress. And instead of the waffle, bring me the pancakes, please.

The waitress’s eyebrows raised a notch, but that was typical Frank. He was always trying to squeeze the most fun out of life.

After lunch, we relaxed on the living room couch with NFL football. Frank hopped from game to game while I fiddled with my laptop computer. Frank didn’t do much email, so I functioned as his personal secretary, answering emails that had come in the last couple of days. Frank received a lot of emotional messages from listeners, and many of them deserved some kind of a response. I handled those emails, as well as requests for outside speaking engagements. If people called Frank to book him, he let me handle that as well. Frank liked to have me involved in everything, which was good because then I had a good grip on his schedule and our family life. He was very much a family man with our kids and grandchild.

We stayed in on Sunday night. Frank barbecued steaks on the grill and we talked about the short week ahead since KKLA gave him Thanksgiving Day and Black Friday off and planned to bring in guest hosts to cover for him.

Frank mentioned that he had forgotten to tell me that he had a morning appointment with a show sponsor, Dr. John Shieh of Rejuva- You Medical Spa, a medical doctor who provides a holistic approach to minimally invasive skin and body rejuvenation medical procedures that make your skin look young. Dr. Shieh was a big fan of Christian radio and loved supporting Frank’s show as a sponsor. The two agreed that doing an anti-aging procedure on Frank’s face would give my husband a legitimate avenue for an honest on-the-air endorsement about the benefits of RejuvaYou.

Frank explained that he had a 9 o’clock appointment with Dr. Shieh in Pasadena, which wasn’t far from the KKLA studios in Glendale, another fifteen minutes west of Pasadena on Interstate 134. To be in Pasadena by nine, that meant he had to leave the house by 8 a.m.—an early departure since Frank normally didn’t get on the road until 11:30 a.m. It didn’t make sense to drive back to Upland, so Frank said he’d just go in early for show prep and meetings with higher-ups at the KKLA studios.

I teased my big lug of a husband about his spa treatment with Dr. Shieh. The thought of him sitting back in a comfy chair and getting work done on his face made a funny picture in my mind.

When we retired to bed, I had no idea it would be the last time I would ever fall asleep next to my husband.

2 - A Kiss Goodbye

Since we were empty nesters and Frank didn’t have to be at KKLA until the early afternoon on most days, we never set an alarm. I automatically woke up at 7:30 a.m. while Frank rested until eight o’clock. Our morning routine was to have coffee together, and then Frank would make himself a delicious protein shake. I usually had a few sips while Frank scrolled through his favorite news sites and I caught up on email. We had dueling laptops at the kitchen counter: Frank sported his trusty Macbook Pro, and I loved my lighter Macbook Air.

Frank perused the Drudge Report, the Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Los Angeles Times, National Review, Fox News, and Christian Newswire as well as political junkie sites like Breitbart, Politico, and Real Clear Politics. Frank’s talk show was driven by breaking news, and my husband was always looking for interesting topics to discuss. If the U.S. Supreme Court had issued an important ruling or a political figure said something controversial, Frank was thinking about whom he could interview on the subject. He saw his role as interpreting and disseminating the news with a Christian worldview.

On this particular morning, November 19, 2012, Frank set his alarm for 7 a.m. because of his nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Shieh in Pasadena. The alarm buzzer woke me out of a deep sleep; I had forgotten that Frank had set the alarm when we retired. I heard him tiptoe into the bathroom and take a shower—and I promptly fell back asleep.

I awoke again when he was dressing. Frank put on his usual uniform—a white button-down, long-sleeved Eddie Bauer dress shirt with a KKLA logo and classic Levi’s 501 blue jeans—but when I saw him slipping his stocking feet into a pair of heavy black boots, I knew he was riding his motorcycle into Pasadena and Glendale that morning.

Why don’t you take the car? I said. You’ve got a long day ahead of you, and it’s cold today. The wet weather system had blown to the east, leaving generally sunny skies but below-average temperatures in the low 60s. Don’t laugh: we think that’s cold in Southern California.

What? And not wear my new jacket?

I had forgotten about Frank’s latest fashion accessory. Frank had recently purchased a heated black leather jacket, treating himself to an early Christmas present.

My husband loved riding his motorcycle. There was something visceral about being on a bike, as he and all riders called their muscular machines: the sensation of speed coming from the wind pummeling their torsos; the thrill of passing pavement just inches from their feet; the adrenaline rush from leaning aggressively into corners; and the awareness of experiencing God’s beauty while motoring through picturesque locales.

We were both mindful of the well-known dangers of motorcycle riding. Get too cocky on the road, drop your concentration just a bit, overcook a turn, or fail to practice awareness of every car around you, and you’re destined to become a flower-covered cross on the side of the highway.

Frank hadn’t always owned a motorcycle, although he had messed around with a dirt bike in his teen years and would talk about how much fun that was. When we got married, Frank couldn’t ride a motorcycle because there was a clause in his baseball contract that forbid him from getting on a motorbike. He couldn’t surf, skydive, or bungee jump either. Fortunately, Frank wasn’t a beach boy nor interested in donning a parachute and jumping out of an airplane, and he had no desire to tether himself to a bungee cord and plunge off a bridge. But he sure wanted to ride a motorcycle in the worst way. He honored his contract, though.

When Frank retired from baseball, we were visiting some friends when Frank noticed a skinny Kawasaki parked in the driveway. Hey, Joe, can I take your bike for a ride?

As I recall, Frank didn’t drive around the block. He was gone for a good hour, so he really took the Kawasaki for a spin. When he came back, all he could talk about was getting his own motorcycle someday soon.

I put my foot down. No, no, no, I said. We have small children. I don’t want to raise them by myself.

When Frank and I continued the discussion at home, I compromised—a bit. If you still want to ride when our children are grown, we can revisit the idea, I said.

And that’s where we left things, although every time we saw a free-spirited dude with a bushy beard riding a Harley-Davidson chopper with ape hangers, Frank would wistfully say, Man, that looks like fun.

When Christina’s eighteen, then we can talk about it, I’d respond, secretly hoping that this overwhelming desire would pass.

I don’t think I can wait that long, he’d say.

The next time he raised the issue, I said, The only people who should be on motorcycles are police officers, thinking that would end the discussion once and for all.

Frank had an answer for that. Well, then I’ll become a police officer.

I got a little worried. I didn’t want him to become a motorcycle cop, either. At the time, Frank had gone into the ministry with Campus Crusade for Christ and its sports outreach known as Athletes in Action. Raising his own support was proving to be daunting, and we were having a tough time making ends meet. And then there was the ministry politics . . .

During this turbulent time, Frank sought out professional counseling, which changed his outlook considerably. He was able to explore issues that happened in his childhood that were still impacting him.

When Christina turned sixteen and got her driver’s license in 2000, Frank pleaded with me to get his first motorcycle. During one session with a counselor, he recalled the time when he was seven years old and really, really wanted a purple Sting-Ray bike for Christmas. For weeks, he dreamed of finding that bike parked next to the tree on Christmas morning. When he received his prized bike, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven.

The