The rest is familiar, including the same far-flung attempt to realize a dream dreamed by so many other fringe players, guys who have substantial dimensions and talent, maybe enough to make it, but not enough to have already done so.
It’s just that Griffin’s personal chronology was, indeed, interrupted — slammed into a wall with iron bars in front of it — 18 months ago, on a Friday, as he stood in a men’s clothing store in his hometown of Orlando, Fla., looking for a suit to buy and wear to his best friend’s funeral, a friend who had been shot to death just shy of two weeks earlier.