Happy Birthday Aaron!
Twenty-seven years ago today, I entered the world of parenthood. Aaron emerged into our world during the wee hours (don’t they all?) to whoops of joy and incessant camera snapping by the old man. Bless his heart, he’s always loved those pictures, and to this day, will trot them out with a minimum of prompting.
Today, Aaron, you’re a strapping hunk of a guy, a warm personality well-liked by all, and a good buddy to your dad. Today, you’re coming over to watch the A’s play the Twins in a crucial playoff game. I’m splurging on Zachary’s deep-dish sausage pizza, the best damn pizza west of Chicago.
Afterward, we’re going to Temple Beth-El for the baby-naming service for the new offspring of one your best friends. The cycle of life goes around. Then, your Mom and I are giving you a gift certificate to Liaison, the perfect, intimate French bistro for enjoying a romantic tete-a tete and gastronomic treat with your wonderful girlfriend, Jocelyn.
Meanwhile, your younger brother, Jonathan, has made the trip from Madison to the Twin Cities to catch the A’s-Twins games. He’s got seats up in the stratosphere of that indoor insane asylum of a ballpark. He’ll be staying with his ex-roommate who’s already graduated and working in Minneapolis. You and I will be straining our necks to see if the TV camera pans by the stands and gives us a glimpse of Jon. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass?
You and your brother are true A’s fans. During the period of your boyhood, circa ages 8 to 14, when lads have an almost spiritual relationship with the national pastime, the A’s were in their glory years—the era of the Bash Brothers, McGwire and Canseco, plus Rickey Henderson in his prime, and the formidable Dave Stewart and Bob Welch on the pitcher’s mound. That stamped you for life. Wherever you end up living, I’m sure you guys will always be A’s fans.
Here’s to you, Aaron, you’re the best!
Twenty-seven years ago today, I entered the world of parenthood. Aaron emerged into our world during the wee hours (don’t they all?) to whoops of joy and incessant camera snapping by the old man. Bless his heart, he’s always loved those pictures, and to this day, will trot them out with a minimum of prompting.
Today, Aaron, you’re a strapping hunk of a guy, a warm personality well-liked by all, and a good buddy to your dad. Today, you’re coming over to watch the A’s play the Twins in a crucial playoff game. I’m splurging on Zachary’s deep-dish sausage pizza, the best damn pizza west of Chicago.
Afterward, we’re going to Temple Beth-El for the baby-naming service for the new offspring of one your best friends. The cycle of life goes around. Then, your Mom and I are giving you a gift certificate to Liaison, the perfect, intimate French bistro for enjoying a romantic tete-a tete and gastronomic treat with your wonderful girlfriend, Jocelyn.
Meanwhile, your younger brother, Jonathan, has made the trip from Madison to the Twin Cities to catch the A’s-Twins games. He’s got seats up in the stratosphere of that indoor insane asylum of a ballpark. He’ll be staying with his ex-roommate who’s already graduated and working in Minneapolis. You and I will be straining our necks to see if the TV camera pans by the stands and gives us a glimpse of Jon. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the ass?
You and your brother are true A’s fans. During the period of your boyhood, circa ages 8 to 14, when lads have an almost spiritual relationship with the national pastime, the A’s were in their glory years—the era of the Bash Brothers, McGwire and Canseco, plus Rickey Henderson in his prime, and the formidable Dave Stewart and Bob Welch on the pitcher’s mound. That stamped you for life. Wherever you end up living, I’m sure you guys will always be A’s fans.
Here’s to you, Aaron, you’re the best!
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