I had just turned eleven, but when I close my eyes, I can still look back and see leaves dressed in their boldest reds, yellows, and oranges under a grey sky. I feel the cool air that barely breaks forty degrees and hear the battle cries that still play. So, too, do valiant victory marches atop an open field one-hundred yards long.

Miracles matter any time of year, but where I grew up they count a little more when made by heroes in autumn.

Thinking about that Saturday makes me think about the Friday morning before it and about my dad. The football gods had dipped him in their golden honey and blessed him not just with great speed but also a rare, special toughness—the type he didn’t need to go around proving because everyone knew it was just always there.

Dad had reddish-brown hair, cut a devilish grin, and there was a time—brief and fleeting as it so often is for matinee idols whose greatest glories come then they’re still young—that he raced to touchdowns and soared alongside cheers while wearing wings painted in maize and blue.

“Number 41 in your programs. Number 1 in your hearts,” they said as he finished third in voting for the 1976 Heisman Trophy.

Only later, long after the adulation had ended, would he limp off into football’s sunset a wounded Bronco full of longing for one more play in the game he loved.

I stood spellbound in Dad’s home office watching him dip into his storytelling bag of tricks. Michigan played Ohio State the next day, and Dad reclined his chair behind a hulking oak desk regaling Michigan sports radio about…

“… that time in ’76 when we beat Ohio State 22-0 my senior year… that game… that day… that was my favorite moment ever playing football. The Horseshoe was so quiet, you could’ve heard a pin drop.” Dad paused there, like he always did, to let the silence sink in. “It was beautiful. A perfect team win.”

Dad smiled and motioned for me to toss him the football I’d been spinning in my hands. He’d set records and scored touchdowns, but when he talked about his past, he never mentioned his individual highlights. Football, for him, was a team game, so that’s what he talked about when he talked about football.

“My prediction?” Dad flipped the ball back to me, and I tucked it under my arm as I’d learned to do long before I’d learned fractions or division. “Michigan wins tomorrow 28 to 7,” he said as a little devil danced inside the sparkle in his eyes.

“You think so?” I asked when he’d hung up.

“We’ll see,” he grinned and swiped at the football. “Now come on. Let’s get some McDonald’s before you go to school.”

I smiled and walked into the day alongside him with a heart full of hope and wonder.

Dad’s Michigan team beat Ohio State on Saturday, November 20, 1976.

He later died at fifty-six on Saturday, November 20, 2010.

I don’t know what it means that this day I so often remember—Saturday, November 20, 1993—happened exactly seventeen years from each of them, but I do know that game-day butterflies rumbled in my belly for every one of the eighty miles we drove north from Fremont, Ohio, to Ann Arbor, Michigan early that morning.

Grandpa parked his station wagon on a big grass field near the Big House. We stood and stretched our legs. The grass was wet and the air crisp. The wind swirled smells of nearby chili and cigarettes and whipped fallen leaves against our feet. Fight songs played from car speakers off old cassette tapes.

Grandpa popped open his 4-seat card table with “Block M’s” on it and set out a bucket of chicken, some potato salad, these awful tasting coconut bars nobody touched but him, crackers, dips, and a block of Swiss cheese Dad mostly claimed for himself. Grandpa, a friend of his, and Dad sipped off the foam of their first morning beers and smiled. I clutched a can of Coke, too nervous to have a good time.

The three of them stood and laughed and talked about the season that had passed, and the game Ohio State and Michigan would soon play. Dad and I played catch off and on, but mostly I tossed the football by myself, content to disappear into my imaginations of all the games I hoped to play.

First on Friday’s where people from the town I grew up in would come to watch my best friends and I battle for our school clad in our purple jerseys with white trim. I was a kid, then, but I already knew those Friday night lights, with a whole town watching under them, cast a special type of magic.

If I were lucky, Fridays would give way to Saturdays, and I’d be fortunate enough to run out from a tunnel onto a field of real grass while the sun and clouds tangoed overhead. Stands filled with nervous fans on a November Saturday, hearts all hoping to have their wishes granted.

I imagined practices and repetition after repetition after repetition. I pictured games won and games lost, and I hoped for my chance to one day make it all real. To play these games the way my heroes did. The way my dad had once done.

Kickoff approached, and our tailgate ended. A team in scarlet and gray played one in maize and blue, and while I cherished the game on the field, it never held a candle to the ones I spent the afternoon imagining would one day happen for me.

Michigan won 28 to 0.

Dad’s prediction had nearly come true, and his s**t-eating grin never left his face on the drive home.

I think about fall, that mix of months when the nights get dark before dinner and leaves raked into big piles can become perfect backyard end zones, more than is usual for someone my age. When I do, I always picture this day in 1993 and how it faded into a night I didn’t want to let go.

The movie ended around 10:00 pm, and Mom, Dad, and I stepped outside the theater. They walked casually while I kept pace a step behind. The night was dark, and streetlights paved our walk three blocks to our house. The temperature felt like snow could be around the corner, and surrounding us the bells of the neighborhood churches waited for their turn to play the next morning.

Dad mumbled something about the movie and Rudy being an annoying try hard. Mom chuckled and told him to be quiet. I smiled, thinking less about the little kid from The Goonies who seemed a better pest than football player, and more about what I was feeling as we walked home.

The strings and piano keys I’d just listened to continued to play inside my head. I still saw all those football fields, some covered with fallen leaves and others with the faces of players hurting, grimacing, and yearning for their chance to play.

There was that cathedral in South Bend, and while it wasn’t home to my team, it still housed the ghosts of past champions with the hopes of young dreamers like me chasing a chance at gridiron glory. I felt the drums building and the horns rising, swelling passion and excitement in me.

I was a kid who loved football with a heart full of fall’s greatest dreams.

I fought sleep as long as I could that night, knowing—even then—how much I never wanted the day to end.

Fall Saturdays can be perfect for a kid who grew up where I grew up, one who learned about offensive line splits and the trinity of the veer option from the same person who quizzed him before social studies tests.

A father, first, who happened to also be the first football player to score a touchdown in the Rose Bowl and the Super Bowl.

Which is why every year, when it becomes sweatshirt weather outside and the scent of bonfires seems everywhere, I travel back in time to places and memories impossible to separate from football.

I close my eyes and feel November’s chill.

I think about days that feel too fresh to have happened so long ago.

I hear strings, a piano, and a flute play a soundtrack made for the fall, and one more time I feel the smack of a leather football against my bare hands. Dad grins, and I see this, too, as I run route after route in a perfect picture where dreams and hopes and games of catch never need to end.

If you close your eyes, what do you see? What do you feel?

Damn, I love football.

See you when we see you

Friends, football is as seductive as it is violent. Which means with love comes devastation, death, and heartbreak.

Soon, I’ll talk about the other side of the football coin.

We love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.

We were eating ice cream and hadn’t a clue about any davenports.

My first basketball memory, though, did happen on that davenport.

It was winter, 1990, and the Bad Boy Pistons had just knocked MJ to the hardwood. I watched Grandma, a staunch Detroit Basketball fan, beam while she and Dennis Rodman, who she lovingly called The Worm, pumped their fists high in the air to celebrate. A long ash dangled curiously from the well-smoked cigarette between her fingers. It was all magic.

Grandma might have liked her Manhattans and playing the clarinet, but she loved those cigarettes.

“Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. Roll ‘em if you don’t. Well, I started rolling my own at thirteen,” she used to say.

One summer Saturday as raindrops played a beat outside against the house, Grandma told me some music would do us some good. So, she found her old clarinet, blew old tunes for a bit, and even managed to make one short stretch sound almost musical.

Grandma stopped soon after she started, breathed a bunch real fast to catch her breath, took a long pull from her burning heater, and grinned. “Don’t have the lungs I used to, but I still got some juice. Come on, let’s go get a popsicle to celebrate. We earned it.”

Grandma kept Bomb Pops in the freezer because, in her words, “Eating Bomb Pops is like enjoying the 4th of damn July every time you have one.”

Okay, Grandma never said this, but she did always have Bomb Pops in the freezer for us kids to eat between swim sessions in the pool she and Grandpa had in their backyard.

Grandma liked dogs, I think, or at least tolerated them enough to have a run of Dalmatians and Irish Setters with names like Lady and Maude and Seamus in the house when my dad and two aunts were young.

Grandma kept “good, clean books” for the men’s clothing store she and Grandpa ran from just after World War II into the 1980s.

The store had a gumball machine where you could trade one penny for one gumball. Once, after I had stuffed a dime’s worth of chewy sugar gumballs into my mouth, Grandma looked at me, took two long pulls on her cigarette, stubbed it into an ashtray, pushed it closer to where someone was tailoring a new suit, and said, “All that sugar’s gonna rot your teeth.”

One year for Lent we both gave up biting our fingernails. Grandma was in the kitchen watching Days and nibbling at the edges of a ham salad sandwich on white bread when I snuck off the davenport and into another room. I heard Grandma cough, then shout:

“Better not be biting your nails in there. God’s watching.” She paused, then added, “or looking at that naughty book. God’ll see that, too.”

The dirty book was The Naughty Nineties and though I wasn’t looking at it, I was trying to hide my nail biting from her and from God.

Grandma went to a small, blue church about a half mile from home every Sunday, and on more than one occasion told her Catholic husband he was nothing but a lapsed Episcopalian with a good smile and a seductive laugh.

I remember eating dinner one night with my sister, Grandma (the Episcopalian), and Grandpa (the Catholic) at their small wooden table with flaps that took it from a two-seater to a four-seater. It was October, a quarter after 7:00 pm, and Grandpa had splashed his homemade hard apple cider with vodka while Grandma sipped a Manhattan and smoked more than she ate.

She eyed me stalling over the scoop of green beans on my plate.

“What?”

“Grandma, you know I’m allergic to green beans,” I said with my best you wouldn’t want me to get sick here smile.

She took in a big, deep breath between two bigger puffs on her cigarette, which she then swirled in one hand while pointing at me with the other.

“That nonsense might fly with your mother and father but not with me. I know you’re not allergic. Hurry up. Eat your damn green beans. Jeopardy is on soon and your sister and me, well, we got a game of Old Maid to finish before the show starts.”

Friends, we love you. And we’ll see you when we see you.

JUST PLAY, EPISODE 1Story Wars, a new podcast, a rocking country band, the gift of a smile, and more

Welcome back to Just Play, where we slow down to celebrate, appreciate and applaud good things happening in real life with enthusiasm and positivity.

Here’s what we covered on this episode.

PS- The video segment transitions are what I’d call a work in progress. You’ll see…

Hype Session (~2:00 mark)

Story Wars just celebrated it’s 3rd anniversary, and it has me hyped.

We started by trying to create a way to help people create with their hearts before their heads get in the way. We thought we would host a few shows.

Well, after three years the numbers are in:

⚔️ We've hosted 58 shows,⚔️ With 990 storytellers,⚔️ Creating 2,970 unique stories, ⚔️ Including 446,500 words😹 And an infinite amount of joy.

Story Wars has become something magical: A community connected through shared and spontaneous creativity and friendly competition.

A show full of energy, enthusiasm, and positivity, where we celebrate and applaud the act of creating full of praise and without judgment.

A place to visit and laugh, to be wowed by the magic of creativity.

PS- We host amazing, entertaining, and fun events for teams and businesses. Reach out to see what the fun is all about!

Helmet Stickers (~4:40 mark)

We pass out helmet stickers to celebrate those things that energized us or pumped us up. The good vibrations that make for a big smile and a good day.

First up in this episode are helmet stickers for my colleagues Claudia, Max, and Producer Jake for creating their new podcast: The Proformex Perspective- Real stories and real lessons from a startup that’s doing things differently.

Excited to see where you all take your stories as told through your voices sharing your real experiences.

Congratulations on taking the first and hardest step and doing the darn thing.

Our next helmet sticker goes out to my friend and former colleague John.

After the first Just Play, John shared with me a story about his rocking country band, Southboundlive, where he said:

… “I don’t know who is having more fun, the crowd or us. It’s pure mutual joy. For that I feel extraordinarily lucky and g*d d**n does it pump me up!!”

That is the good stuff.

That’s what it’s all about.

Helmet sticker to you, my friend.

Grandpa Lytle Storytime (~8:30 mark)

Because, sometimes it doesn’t need to complicated.

Kind words. A big smile. A warm embrace. Authentic expressions of love and joy and appreciation. They can be enough to make a difference in someone’s life.

This storytime is a short one about all this goodness.

A Talk About Practice (~10:45 mark)

Fueled by Modelos and Bob Marley, I came up with this episode’s practice:

Find a song you’ve heard hundreds of times, turn off everything else, and press play on it.

Maybe you feel a memory that you’d thought you’d forgotten.

Maybe there's a smile or a few tears. Maybe some laughs.

Maybe you wonder why you ever liked this song in the first place. Or why you haven't listened to it in so many years.

Just listen and feel this song that you've heard hundreds of times before. And when you're done, if you're up for it, share it with me.

Friends, thank you for joining.

We love you and we'll see you when we see you.

My dad, former Michigan All-American and Denver Broncos running back Rob Lytle, was inducted posthumously into the College Football Hall of Fame in December 2015. The honor was bittersweet for our family. On one hand, a touching tribute to Dad’s love for football and the spirit with which he played the game. On the other, a cruel reminder of football’s violence and the calamity it can cause families.

At the Hall of Fame induction ceremony, NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell laughed at a joke mocking football’s head trauma crisis. Dad had suffered ‘double-digit’ concussions while playing, was an early brain diagnosed with CTE, and his heart gave out in 2010 at just 56 after too many beats pumping upstream against the trauma he’d endured on the gridiron.

This is the story of how our family felt that evening (note: I originally published this in February 2016).

The Night Roger Goodell Made My Mom Cry

Roger Goodell, his black bowtie snug to his neck, beamed. His tailored tuxedo jacket broke at his shoulders, which bounced in sync with his amusement. Former Dallas Cowboys quarterback Roger Staubach, presenting at the National Football Foundation’s Annual Awards Dinner on Dec. 8, had just quipped: “I had a chance to sit next to the commissioner of football, Pete Rozelle tonight … Oh, excuse me, Roger Goodell. I apologize. I had six concussions in the NFL.”

Unease rose from the more than 1,500 people seated inside the Waldorf-Astoria’s Grand Ballroom, but Goodell, undaunted, broadened his smile and intensified his laughter. It was tasteless, smug arrogance from the self-professed protector of the shield, a boardroom champion elected to his post by win-at-all-costs NFL owners.

Seated at a table less than thirty-yards from Goodell, I slugged half of my glass of red table wine, swallowed, and pursed my purple-stained lips. The cocktail party humor had hit home, and the offensive reaction from football’s vile prophet had struck a nerve.

I scanned the dais, moving through 16 Hall of Fame faces, national champions, and Heisman Trophy winners. Football legends seated at the head table; men who limp and cringe with simple steps. Academic All-Americans flanked their sides, as did heroes from our nation’s service academies — the evening’s Distinguished American Award winners. Condoleezza Rice sat waiting her turn to speak as the recipient of the National Football Foundation’s Gold Medal award. My eyes swept past these faces and zeroed in on my mother. As the crowd’s laughter faded, hers was the reaction I sought.

Mom was sitting on the dais in honor of her late husband, College Football Hall of Fame inductee Rob Lytle. Dad had starred at the University of Michigan from 1974–1976, leaving as the school’s all-time leader in rushing yards, and finishing third in voting for the Heisman Trophy in 1976.

Legendary Wolverines head coach Bo Schembechler called him the “toughest player” he ever coached. His teammates said he was the most humble teammate they ever had.

Following Michigan, Dad played for the Denver Broncos, becoming the first player to score a touchdown in the Rose Bowl and the Super Bowl. Dad retired in 1984 after seven pro seasons and a smorgasbord of injuries, including — in his words — double-digit concussions.

On Nov. 20, 2010, Dad suffered a massive heart attack and died. He was 56 years old.

Mom and Dad began dating in high school and Mom, as much as anyone on the Waldorf’s stage, had earned her seat. She earned it by caring for — and carrying — Dad in life before, during, and after his career. She had enjoyed the good days, when Dad racked up yards in Michigan’s steamrolling rushing attacks in the mid-seventies. With his sandy blonde hair and easy smile, Dad was everybody’s All-American.

Mom earned her seat in the bad days, too, the tear-filled Sundays she spent tucked into a corner seat at the mile-high point of Denver’s Mile High Stadium. “Catch the ball … Lytle, you bum … Run harder!” The fans’ disappointment accelerated with each season. Mom hid where she could to avoid the insults.

What fans never saw, though, was how Dad was an invalid during the week and transformed into a warrior on Sundays by fixing a cocktail of cortisone, painkillers, adrenaline, and his obsession to play football. Or how, as the toll of injuries overwhelmed his skills, Dad would spend his off days alone in dark rooms, paralyzed emotionally by his fading football career. Mom would drag him from the house and force him to see a life with more than football.

Mom earned her spot on the dais in the dark days. These were the years after Dad retired, when he summoned all his ex-athlete bravado to charm his way through the day only to sit on his living room couch crying into the night. Mom wrapped her arms around him, held his head, and let him weep over losing the game that had been his life’s driving purpose while Barbara Streisand played from an antique record player over the memories of lost days in the sun.

Dad thought himself nothing without football. Mom showed him he could be more.

And Mom earned her place in Dad’s final days, when the toll of nearly 30 operations, the concussions, and thousands of on-field collisions squeezed the last beats from his heart. When vertigo rendered Dad lost and confused at the grocery store he had been visiting since childhood, Mom rescued him. She helped him schedule meetings, monitor appointments, and lift his spirit.

Doctors would posthumously diagnose Dad with moderate to severe chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE). When he died in 2010, our family knew nothing about CTE. Now, as a son, I own a stomach of guilt for not doing enough to help Mom or Dad in those final years.

Mom and Dad were a team for 40 years, from a first kiss near a pool table in her family’s basement to a final goodbye in a hospital room. She had earned her right to celebrate the accomplishments her husband achieved playing the sport that killed him.

Roger Goodell never played football after high school. He just made himself comfortable wearing a suit on NFL sidelines.

I watched Mom closely as the ceremony continued. Mom is a petite fighter with an inexhaustible will to serve others. Some have described her as a “saint;” most others claim she is the “kindest person in the world.” She taught elementary school for almost 30 years. Caring and compassion ruled her classroom. It was a place where young lives entered and left transformed for the better.

Throughout the Hall of Fame events, Mom had worn a practiced smile — part genuine and part bittersweet. She had glowed earlier in the program, awed by the honor for her husband, and cherishing the memories they had formed together. Now, I watched her eyes burn into the NFL Commissioner sitting not more than two first downs from her. Goodell’s laughter had disrespected all former players and families who have had their lives altered by CTE.

Mom seethed and, as I learned later, debated whether to leave the ceremony. Her smile fled, but her composure remained. She sighed and forced back tears. Later, Mom remarked:

“I thought, if you (Goodell) only knew how Rob and so many others loved your game…and if you ever felt for one second their pain, you wouldn’t be smiling. You wouldn’t be laughing. And then, despite being furious, I felt sad. Not for your dad or myself. But sad over my disappointment in Goodell…that he doesn’t care…that he could never know just how much people like Rob and others love this sport…and sad for football itself. The game has a long way to go to fix its problems.”

Friends- football is a violent yet beautiful game and my dad dearly loved the sport. Roger Goodell, well, I have nothing positive to say about him.

We love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.

PS- As a reminder, my book To Dad, From Kelly, shares personal reflections on Dad’s life, death, and lasting legacy.

We’re trying something new over here at See You When We See You, besides changing the name.

I’m excited to welcome y’all to Just Play, a new video series where every couple weeks we’ll slow down to celebrate, appreciate and applaud good things happening in real life with enthusiasm and positivity. Make sure to watch the super awesome video here for even more info!

Why Just Play?

Because we all have enough moments in our lives where we’re critiqued, edited, judged, or supposed to “win.” And that’s all well and good, but it’s also exhausting. Rumi said “out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field, I’ll meet you there.”

At Just Play, there is no good and no bad. Only that we went out and just played.

Here’s how it’ll play out (see what I did there):

Everyone needs a good hype person. And I don’t care who you are, it feels good to be hyped up. So that’s where we’ll start.

Next, we’re passing out helmet stickers (yes, those cliche adornments all over college football) to celebrate the moments, people, and experiences in real life that brought about some good vibrations.

Then, there will be some slightly long-winded story because I cannot help myself.

And we’ll end with a practice. Something simple — like sharing a handwritten thank you note or telling a friend how much you appreciate them — to share some goodness.

The videos will be 5-10 minutes and drop every other Thursday or so. I’m nervous and curious to see where it goes — maybe we’ll add a chat or start bringing folks on to share their stories.

We’ll see. It’s all new and all an adventure.

We love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.

You can pre-order the eBook now or wait for the paperback on the 18th.

Some say it’ll change your life. Not everyone, but some.

When I was in junior high, I had a basketball coach who smelled a lot like Vick’s VapoRub would smell if Vick’s VapoRub also smelled like it had smoked a pack of Marlboros. Once, in the summer before my senior year in high school, two friends and I got pretty drunk on some Foster’s Oil Cans with this coach but that’s a story for another time.

Anyways, this coach spoke with a deep, raspy delivery, and he was full of go-to sayings.

Guys, it’s like (insert name here) en fuego after anyone had strung together a few makes in a row.

Kelly, it’s like I give you a lot of latitude, but when you put a running left-handed hook shot off the top of the backboard, well, that’s where I gotta draw the line.

It’s like… the rocker step is gotta be your best friend on the basketball court.

But his best line he saved for whenever one of his teams lost a game.

After a 20-0 regular season, our team lost in the semi-finals of our conference tournament. Standing in front of us in the locker room, he surveyed our sad, sweating faces. He looked into our forlorn stares - the dashed hopes of a bunch of fifteen-year-olds - and tried to mend our pained hearts. He ran his hand across his head. Nodded, for a beat, then spoke:

Guys, it’s like we play this team ten times at a neutral site, we win nine of ‘em. They just beat us today.

The point of this story, though, is not what happened next for our team but what I learned happened the year before when that year’s team had played a particularly good squad out of Toledo. They had lost… by a lot of points… after trailing most of the game by many more points.

As told to me, Coach gathered everyone in the locker room. Then, after a few moments of silence, he finally spoke:

Guys, it’s like we play this team ten times a neutral site…well, I don’t think we win one of them. They’re that good.

Friends- Below the 8-Foot Rim is available starting on Tuesday. It was such a joy to write. I hope you enjoy it, too.

We love you, and we’ll see you when we see you.

🏀Have any words of wisdom from a memorable coach? Go ahead and share in the comments. Would love to read!

You can pre-order the eBook now or wait for the paperback on the 18th.

Some are calling it the greatest thing since sliced bread. Here is an excerpt.

Keys to the Season

In seven seasons of coaching, I’ve created a little routine for myself on the Friday night before our first game. I pour a mix of gin and tonic, watch a medley of basketball highlights on YouTube, and reminisce over basketball moments past while anticipating ones to come.

Sometime during the night, after enough gin and enough reminiscing, I grab a pen and a few old index cards, think about the upcoming season—the weekday practices and Saturday games, the trials of learning to dribble left-handed and the joyful screams for every made basket, the relay races, free throw shootouts, post-game snacks, and pre-game jitters—and write little reminders to myself.

Usually nothing special, just helpers, you could say, for good vibes and a good season.

Here’s what I wrote this year . . .

* Coach with a smile.

* Energy, enthusiasm, effort, and care are infectious. And they start with the coach.

* Practice counts. So, practice joyfulness, positivity, compassion, and fun.

* Authenticity matters. Don’t try to fake it. Kids will spot a phony from miles away.

* Live in awe of the present. Each moment could be their first memory of that experience on a basketball court. The first layup, inbounds pass, backcourt violation, or jump shot tried while defensive players wave their arms wildly and parents holler from the stands. The first time wearing the jersey of their team. Celebrate all of it.

* Laugh, a lot. And when in doubt, roll the ball out and just play. No matter what age you are, laughter and play go a long way.

* “Win” at having fun.

We learned of one man’s love of making mold and of another’s enduring familial love. We survived the angst of teenage love and laughed at erotic romance.

Now, here’s my story for my Valentine…..

I run to you in the morning, before the sun is up.

And at night, when darkness surrounds us both.

It’s just us.

And I’m sweating. Panting. Lying with you.

Wanting to run. But unable to move.

You can be coarse and prickly.

But slippery when wet.

I cross all your lines. Longing to go the distance.

Sometimes others are there. And I feel their eyes on us. They’re younger. More spry. So full of life. And youth.

I’m older. And tired. I usually smell of last night’s gin.

Sometimes I just feel foolish.

I missed you in December. Again in January. February was too cold and you were too frosty.

But spring is in bloom. So the old desires are calling.

Cleveland St. Ignatius.

Calling me back to you. And your artificial turf practice fields where I can run my windsprints again.

With you, my valentine.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

Two ways. Gradually, then suddenly.”

Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

In Fremont, Ohio, you had two options for elementary school: Catholic or Public. 

I went to Catholic school. Mom taught 5th grade at one of the public elementary schools. 

This duality never mattered until I hit 5th grade and after a month of school noticed the covers of Mom’s textbooks were the same as my own. 

Then one weekend in October 1993, I had the house to myself. Dad was outside in his overalls whacking weeds. Mom and E shopping at the mall in Toledo. I was alone with a question to answer. 

I gathered my textbooks along with Mom’s and spread them across the yellow carpet that filled our living room. I sat cross-legged with a notebook in my lap, a pen dangling from my mouth, and started to compare. 

First math, then English. Followed by Social Studies and Science. I flipped through chapter intros and end of lesson summaries. Read paragraphs from each side-by-side. As I compared, I found they were exact matches except for one critical difference: 

Mom’s versions had the answers to every homework assignment, quiz, and end of unit test. 

Which meant I now had the answers to every homework assignment, quiz, and end of unit test. 

It was like I’d found Nintendo’s Game Genie but for 5th grade schoolwork. 

I sat there for a second and stretched my arms high above my head. A little smile crept across my face. 

But I wouldn’t fold that easily. Although I had uncovered this gift, I vowed I’d use it only if absolutely necessary. I wouldn’t cheat. I would get through 5th grade honestly.

One week later we had a Social Studies test and for some reason when the class time ended the teacher told us we needed to leave our textbooks in the classroom and that she’d give us an extra 15 minutes the next day to finish the test. 

I left school that day fixed on one question from the test. I remember it was about the conquistadors and Cortes and a skirmish with Montezuma. I’d left it blank because I had no answer for it then. But I could have an answer for it once Mom got home with her books. 

I walked the few blocks home with my stomach bound up like one of those twisty pretzels from a food court. 

I got home and distracted myself. Shot hoops in the driveway. Played the Sega in the basement. Ate dinner with the family and our Dalmatians. Through all of it, my brain tried to conjure one damn answer for that one damn question. 

And my heart wrestled with the promise I’d made the weekend before. 

The answer never came, so I put myself to bed. Except whenever I closed my eyes I only saw that question staring at me. Calling to me. Pleading with me to answer it. I’d push it away for an instant, only to have images of Mom’s answer key dance into my view. I laid awake for hours. 

Then, I heard Mom and Dad go to bed. 

And I had a decision to make. 

Stay in my room, keep my promise, and take my licks honestly the next day. 

Or sneak downstairs, score the answer from Mom’s textbook, and break my vow. 

Two minutes later, I snuck the f**k downstairs.

I grabbed Mom’s Social Studies textbook from her bag and flipped to the section about explorers. I found the test and my answer and once I’d started looking I couldn’t stop until I’d memorized every answer to every question. 

I felt dirty about what I’d done once I’d finished, so I took a shower before falling comfortably asleep. 

The next day, the teacher handed out our test. She said to get started because we had only 15 minutes to finish. I paused a moment before resuming my test. I looked across the class, watched everyone scribbling furiously, and smiled. 

Then, I answered my question about Cortes and changed four others. 

I got a 100%. That test never stood a chance. 

And neither did my math homework that night. Or the following week’s science quiz. I aced my next three English tests, too. 

H**l, eventually I got nervous about all the A’s and started missing questions on purpose just to keep things honest. 

Still, I never stopped stealing answers. 

Friends- if you ask me how I started cheating in 5th grade, I’ll tell you it happened in two ways. Gradually, then suddenly. 

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you. 

My entire identity was wrapped into sports, so I’m understating when I say that me returning to play was critical for my parents and me. 

A few months later, Mom and Dad had gotten into magnet therapy to boost their health and alleviate their pain. For background, in magnet therapy, therapeutic magnets are incorporated into clothing or jewelry and placed on the body to harmonize your natural magnetic fields.

Blood flows faster. And healing accelerates.

Dad had had his shoulder replaced the previous April. So, there was a magnetic shoulder wrap. Magnetic bracelets. A mattress slip with magnets. And, of course, a knee wrap for me. 

I protested wearing the magnetic knee wrap. 

Mom and Dad said I needed to wear it because track season loomed. 

We argued. Then compromised. I would wear the wrap only when I slept. 

Which I started doing somewhere in early 2000. After a few weeks, though, I’d been traumatized and stopped wearing the stupid magnets but for personal reasons I also needed Mom and Dad not to know I had stopped wearing them.

So, for several months I just lied about wearing it.

Mom and Dad liked these magnets and asked a lot of questions about them. 

‘Is the wrap helping? Do you feel better? You think it’s working?’

I dared not speak the truth, so I had to lie.

“Feels great,” I would tell them. “Best my knee’s ever felt. I don’t know what it is but seems like my knee just comes alive at night with these magnets.”

They’d ask if I’d wear the wrap during the day. 

“Nah,” I’d say. “Nighttime is the right time. Trust me.”

This dance continued into a Tuesday evening in early March when the three of us were eating dinner together. Track meets were less than a month away and Mom and Dad wanted to ramp my healing. 

I was enjoying a bite of pasta when they started digging in with their questions. 

Are the magnets helping? Do you think they’re really working? The mattress slip is amazing. Maybe you need one? 

I deflected for a few minutes. 

‘Should we get you more? An ankle brace? Or wraps for your feet? You think you need more magnets?’

Their questions wouldn’t f*****g stop.

I was frustrated and annoyed and angry with my parents for ever introducing the idea of magnet therapy to me. 

“Look,” I snapped. “I hate the magnets. They don’t work, and I haven’t even worn the stupid wrap for months.”

“What?” Mom asked.

“Why?” Dad growled. 

“Because,” I mumbled, now wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut.

“Why?” They leaned in on me. 

“Doesn’t matter,” I retreated. 

“We asked you a question. And you better answer it,” Dad said. 

I had no choice. I couldn’t hold out any longer. I needed to come clean and tell the truth. 

And the truth was that I wasn’t sleeping in the magnetic knee wrap because every time I did I had a wet dream. 

And here’s the thing, because I don’t ever remember my dreams (maybe 10 in my whole life), not only was I coming on myself each night, but I wasn’t even remembering what I was coming about. 

Plus, I was 16 and a virgin in every way except of the self-help variety. And now I was waking up sticky and embarrassed and worried that all the nighttime emissions were going to give me tired legs on the track.

Mom continued staring at me. Dad pointed his fork in my direction. A lone noodle dangled from it. 

“Fine!” I finally said, my voice near a whisper. “I don’t wear the magnets because every time I do, they give me a wet dream.” 

Defeated, I dropped my chin to my chest.

Mom gasped, then chuckled. 

Dad didn’t say anything. When I finally looked up at him, he had that big grin spread all across his face. 

“Well, I gotta tell you. I’m kinda jealous,” he said.

Friends- I haven’t had a wet dream in 21 years. Sometimes I wish I’d kept that knee wrap. 

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you. 

And Popo could tell the h**l out of a story.

Popo had my height and build. Freckles dotted his fair skin, and his cheeks were usually rosy. He owned a big smile and louder laugh and when you sat with him he had a magical presence that made time cease to exist.

Whenever Popo had a story, he’d sit and smile for a few seconds before starting -- like he was slow-playing letting you in on a secret. His stories were long, and they never started or stopped in the same place. Truth for Popo mattered less than the story’s soul, and he’d laugh a little to himself as he spoke -- relishing the moment and the attention.

Even if you’d heard the story a dozen times, you’d find yourself laughing, too. Then the story would end, and Popo’s big, charming smile would come out.

A friend once told me: ‘I’d sit with your grandpa and he’d start talking and sip his drinks and we’d just laugh and laugh. And then he’d stop talking and look at me and smile. It felt like I was the only person in the world to him. I loved your grandpa.’

Popo was special. And he kept a keg of Stroh’s in his basement.

Life is full of conundrums. One is certainly that this big smiling, bigger laughing, cocktail-loving charmer I called Popo was also one of the fastest men in the world in the mid-1940s.

In college, Popo held the 100-yard and 220-yard sprint records at Bowling Green State University. A newspaper said he ran like the wind. Popo even bested future Olympic 100-meter gold medalist Harrison Dillard in some of their races.

And while World War II plus life’s duties intervened and Popo never tried for the 1948 Olympics, he did once get an “A” on a high school book report.

And it’s his retelling of this book report that ignited my love of storytelling.

Here’s what Popo said about that book report (Quotations, of course, are used loosely….)

“I was in high school, and the teacher said we had to do a report on a book of our choosing. And, well, I never cared much for school, so I just let her ramble and never paid any attention.

A week passed and some kids started asking about my report. ‘Kelly,’ they said (Popo and I share a name, by the way), ‘can we see your report?”

‘You’ll see it when you see it,’ I’d say and tell them to p**s off.

Then I got to class one day and all the damn kids had their damn reports written up and ready to go. Apparently, we were reading them aloud, which was trouble because I hadn’t read a damn thing.

One-by-one the kids started taking their turns reading, and I just sat there and thought: Well, Kelly, you really screwed yourself now. I didn’t know what I was going to do.

“Kelly, you’re up,” the teacher finally said.

I paused in my chair for a second. Then I stood and took my time getting to the front of the class. As I was walking, the teacher saw I didn’t have a report with me.

“Kelly, where’s your report?” She asked.

“The story is in here,” I said and pointed to my heart.

“Wonderful,” she said.

I reached the front, grabbed a piece of chalk, and scribbled on the chalkboard:

“Over the Top”

A Novel by Guy Impy

I turned to face the class. Stared at the floor for a second. Then raised my head. Grinned. And started speaking.

I told them about a boy from Omaha or Oklahoma or the farms outside Chicago. About how he rescued his sister once from a fire in the family barn, and how his mom died from pneumonia while his dad struggled to keep up their small store.

I talked about how the boy came of age in the early 1900’s, laboring with his father to make ends meet. I told them how he went off to the Great War where he sacrificed all of himself. And how his small town remembered him with a parade and a salute.

I looked out at the class when I was done. Wiped my damp brow with the back of my hand and said: “That, my friends, is Over the Top. A novel by Guy Impy.”

The class roared.

The teacher gave me an “A”.

And I never had the heart to tell her I made up the whole damn thing -- the title, the author, the story. All of it.”

Popo would finish talking and smile. Anyone listening would laugh. I remember marveling at Popo and how his warmth captured imaginations and attention. I remember hoping one day to the same.

Friends- the next time I heard this story, the hero survived the war and his mother never had pneumonia.

Like I said, Popo never let the truth get in the way of a real story.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

Like this year, when a friend of our family’s shared a photo on Facebook of Dad and a teammate standing on the Broncos sideline. There isn’t anything especially remarkable about the photo.

Just two teammates in their Bronco orange jerseys. They’re old school blue helmets are cocked slightly upwards. Dad has his hands on his hips as some action plays out on the field. The screen reads this is his first 100 yard rushing game as a pro. 

Dad died ten years ago last November. And when I saw the photo, I shared it with Mom. She immediately sent me one of those laughing but crying, too, emojis. 

That was last Sunday. And ever since I’ve been thinking about this photo and about Mom and Dad’s “Bronco Days” and about all the stories I heard. 

Now, I want to share one of those stories. 

I was born in September 1982. Later that month the wives of the Bronco players held a baby shower for Mom to celebrate. 

All of them gathered at one of their homes. They were eating and drinking and carrying on. Mom had me in a carrier next to her while she was busy opening gifts. 

I started to cry and wouldn’t stop. 

So Cindy -- who is still married today to the player standing with Dad in the photo -- kindly offered to help. 

“Thank you,” Mom said. 

Cindy scooped me from the carrier. Held me close. And left the room. 

A short time later she brought me back. I was quiet and content and resting. 

She handed me to Mom and whispered something in Mom’s ear. Mom recoiled a half-step and shot Cindy a confused, if slightly curious look. 

“Uhm. Okay. Sure. Thank you,” Mom said and returned her attention to the shower. 

That was in 1982. 

Before Dad died in 2010, he asked that we spread his ashes at the three stadiums where he played: Harmon Stadium in Fremont, Ohio; The Big House in Ann Arbor, Michigan; and Mile High in Denver. 

So, thirty-plus years after the baby shower, my family and I were in Denver. On Sunday we would spread his ashes on the site of old Mile High Stadium before a Broncos game.

And on Saturday night we had a chance to gather with old teammates and friends at a downtown Denver bar -- some mom hadn’t seen since she left Denver in the early 80’s. 

Cindy and her husband were there, too. 

After a few drinks, Cindy, Mom, and I started chatting separately from the group.

“Did I……” Cindy started and stopped. “Does he know….” she looked at Mom. “Do you know about....” she looked at me.

I tilted my head and let a wide smile spread across my face. The three of us started to laugh. Cindy shook her head smiling.

“Oh, I have heard the story,” I finally said with a laugh big enough to cover the bar. 

We clinked our drinks together. Cheersed the moment. And the memory. 

Her husband leaned in to ask what we were laughing about. 

“Oh,” Cindy started. “We were just reminiscing about the time Kelly here was a newborn and I breastfed him at Tracy’s baby shower.”

Her husband spit his beer across the table. 

Friends- Stories aren’t always what we expect. But always expect a story.

We love you. And we’ll see you when we see you.

Had been a long week. Lots of stress. Long hours. Life whipping P and me.

We chilled in the front room for a few hours. Played Aretha. Then Otis. Ended with Jodeci on vinyl. 

About 9:30, I went to the other room. Poured a gin. Turned on ‘Kelly’s Bad Movies.’ Started Homefront on a friend’s recommendation. 

P popped in an hour or so later, Her walk full of sass. 

“Damn. You’re not sleeping yet.” She said.

“Not yet.”

P eyerolled the TV. `

“I never get to watch my shows,” she sighed. “We always have to watch your sh*t.”

“Whatever. There’s only like 15 minutes left and then I’ll go to bed.”

“Fine.” P said and sat in her corner couch spot.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. 

“Ughhhhh. You said 15 minutes. Is this ever going to end?” P played on her phone.

Ten minutes later the credits started to roll. 

I grabbed the remote. Turned the TV off. Giggled a little to myself. Then stood and tossed the remote into P’s lap. 

P looked up. Sighed angrily. “Dammit! You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Turn off the TV whenever it's actually my turn to watch.”

“I would never….”

“Just stop,” P cut me off. I’m not in the mood for your sh*t.”

I watched P press the remote. TV wouldn’t respond. She hit it again. Still nothing. 

“Every night. Every single night you do this. And now it won’t even turn on.”

“Worked fine for me.”

P growled. Waved the remote in the air. Pressed power again and the TV finally turned on. 

“See. It’s fine,” I said and grabbed a string cheese from the fridge.

“No. It’s not fine,” P snarled.

I looked at the TV. She had Hulu pulled up. But the screen was frozen. None of her shows were loading. 

“If you just kept the TV on…. Ugh. I swear. You’re always such a jerk.”

I pulled a string of cheese. Smiled. Turned. And headed up the stairs. 

“And now you broke the internet,” P shouted. “Because you always have to piss me off and turn off the TV.”

I kept walking.

“I’m so pissed at you. Seriously!” 

“Is it working yet?” I called from upstairs. 

“I’m sick of it. I’m so sick of your b******t. You need to write a story about this. About how you’re an a*****e.”

Friends- I woke this morning alone in bed. Heard a crinkle in the pocket of my sweats. Reached in and found the empty string cheese wrapper.

Then I went downstairs and ran the vacuum while P tried to sleep. 

We love you. And we’ll see you when we see you.

P’s in the front room. Reading Deem or Kinfolk or Dwell. Pizza is mostly gone. Same for the wedges of fried cheese. I’m in the other room on the couch near the TV.

“K- what are you doing?” P asked.

“Just reading.” This is a lie because I’m scrolling P’s Netflix profile.

“Okay.” 

I scroll through the indie flicks. Past the section of British period dramas. Clear the documentaries and stuff about Scandinavian design. Past that show Abstract and some rows of sh*t about the Royal Family. Finally arrive at the ‘watch it again’ section and find me a good one.

I turn the volume low to keep P at bay. Then press play.

A few minutes pass.

“K- what are you up to?”

“Nothing. Still reading.” 

“Oh. Thought I heard some noise.” 

“Nope. Might have been the neighbors.”

I hit the down arrow on the volume. Glanced out the window. Quiet. Dark. Though I could see a faint snow falling. Nobody had been outside in hours. 

I sank deeper into the corner of the couch. Watched on the Netflix as Jason Momoa looked all heroic in the snow while trying to save his father and daughter and battling a gang of vile drug traffickers who controlled the turf around his logging company and wanted him dead. 

I smiled at the perfection of my Friday night. 

Then P appeared. Over my right shoulder. She eyed the TV. A cabin exploded. 

“K…. Thought you were reading?”

I looked around. Not a book in sight.

“Well…. I was. But I got tired. So I turned on my stories.”

“Annnnnd what story is this.”

“This? Well, this… This is a good one. A real good one.”

“Hmmmm.”

“It’s got the the big, beautiful man from Game of Thrones. Except he’s a logger now and lives somewhere north and cold…. Like Maine….. or Canada…. And his dad has amnesia and they’re trying to spend a quiet weekend together.

But his buddy makes a deal with some nasty drug dealers. And this is where it gets real good.

The deal goes sideways. So Jason has to fight the bad guys and save his dad and save his daughter. It’s really good so far.

I think you’d like it.”

(Silence)

“Did I mention Jason is married to Lisa Bonet?” 

(sigh)

“K! You’re always doing this,” P said.

“Doing what?” I asked.

“Spoiling our Netflix profile. And I had it curated just right. I can’t even handle you.” P swirled a little red inside her big wine glass. Continued.

“Art. Design. The royal family. Stories from Scandinavia. It was an…. an inspiration. And now….. now it’s this?”

She pointed at the TV. Some sh*t blew up.  

“Well, I’d like to think we can become more than just what the Netflix algorithm wants us to be,” I piped up. 

(Scowl)

“Just sayin. I don’t want to live my life defined by what the Netflix tells me to watch.”

(Eye roll)

“K- How many times have you watched National Treasure this month?” P asked.

“Only once.”

“And the Bournes?”

“Just the first three…. but those were on Prime….. so they don’t count.”

“And what’s the name of this one?”

I sat up on the couch. Propped my back into the corner. Held my chin high. 

“This…….is Braven. And Braven is wonderful.”

“You need your own f*****g algorithm,” P said. “And you’re sitting in my d**n spot.”

Friends- ‘Kelly’s Bad Movies’ made its appearance on the Netflix account the next day. This month I’ve seen Den of Thieves, Passenger 57, and Extraction. Plus, P seems happy. 

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.

But before we get into the story, here are 7 things that happened before I learned my name: 

* Taking two stints to graduate pre-school

* Getting benched in tee-ball after coach put me on first base and instead of trying to catch the ball or even use my mitt at all, I just let the ball smack me in the nose twice - on back-to-back plays - when thrown at me

* Not being able to do a jumping jack or ride a bicycle

* Seeing Beetlejuice at Paramount Cinemas in Fremont somewhere between two and nine times

* Sobbing in that same theater and curling into Dad’s arms when Optimus Prime died during the original Transformers 

* Playing Voltron with Dad on a Saturday afternoon and jabbing him in the eye with one of the pieces. For two weeks, Dad wore an eye patch and a scowl and never gave up the claim he had won the battle

* Stealing my sister’s yellow, plastic Fisher-Price purse. And carrying it everywhere... along with a clown doll my family called Clownie.

Mom and Dad named me William Kelly after Grandpa Lytle. 

And in August 1988 I arrived for the afternoon session of my first day at St. Joe’s Kindergarten - blonde hair in a bowl cut; pasty arms dangling from a light blue, short-sleeve button-down shirt; dark blue slacks; and knowing my name was Kelly because, like Grandpa, that’s what I always went by. 

Inside our classroom was a fake Christmas tree. And from the tree hung brown, construction paper ornaments. Each ornament had the name of one student on it. 

The teacher told us that when we tied our shoes or counted to ten or took a nap on schedule we’d get a “star” or “good job” sticker to place on our name card. 

I remember being really…. really…. excited about this. 

And I remember being immediately ready to compete for these stickers. Like looking around the room and sizing up my kindergarten classmates as if they’re f*****g threats ready. 

So, later in day one - or maybe day two - I earned my first sticker for something I’ve long ago forgotten. And I placed that sticker on the tip of my right index finger and strode like a champ up to the tree. I moved in a slow circle around it hunting my name.

I searched…. and searched.

I hunted…. and hunted.

And, in the end, I struck the f**k out. Because none of the cards had my name on them. 

Then, one-by-one all the other kids started coming up with their stickers. They’d find their ornaments immediately. Decorate them with their stickers. Smile at me. And sit down to do a puzzle or drink chocolate milk or whatever.

There’s one kid I’ll never forget.

He came up to the tree. Found his name right away. Placed his sticker on his card perfectly. Started walking away. Stopped. Turned. Hit me with me a double-eyebrow raise plus a smile. Turned away again. And strutted to his seat. This a**hat was all I could take.

My chest started heaving. I felt my face go all red. Breaths getting hard to come by. I looked around the room. Everyone was smiling. Most were laughing. So I panicked. And hid as best I could behind the tree. And then let loose with the tears. 

Sister Maria came over. Asked what was wrong. 

“Everyone has a card but me!” 

I buried my head into the polyester of her nun-gown. She patted my blonde head. Said she was sure everyone had a card. Said she’d help me find mine. 

“Okay,” I said.

She traced the tree. 

“Here you are!” Sister Maria said smiling. 

I wiped snot from my nose with the back of my hand. Scurried around the tree to her.

“Where?” I asked.

“Right there,” she pointed at one of the ornaments. 

I stretched my head closer to the cards. Turned back to look at her. 

“Where?” I asked again. 

Sister Maria moved her finger closer to the card. 

I recognized the last name on the card, but had never seen the first. I backed away from the tree.

“That’s not my name,” I said. 

“Yes it is. It says William. William Lytle. That’s your name.”

“No it’s not,” I said. “My name is Kelly. I don’t know who William is.” 

Sister Maria glanced at the card. Then down at me. She smiled a smile of comfort and amusement. 

“Pretty sure your name is William, too.”

“Huh?” I said.

Friends- Now you know how I learned my name is William. 

We love you. 

And we’ll see you when we see you.

Larder’s potato salad would make Meg Ryan have an actual orgasm. The homemade brownies might do the same.

If Zeus and Jupiter ever descended from the heavens for a lunch sit-down, they’d dine at Larder. Zeus would try the pastrami. Jupiter the chicken sandwich. They’d both be right. And they’d both end their lunch more satisfied than on any other visit to Earth.

Larder is that good.

And Larder is where P and I went for lunch last Saturday.

P ordered the bacon cheeseburger. Chicken sandwich for me. We would share the orgasmic potato salad.

Once home, I unwrapped my sandwich. A chunk of chicken goodness dressed with some slaw had broken free. I scooped it into my mouth. Licked the extra sauce from my finger. Then started in on the sandwich.

P asked me for a small bite after a minute or two. “All gone,” I told her.

A few hours later, I had gotten into the gin and gotten a little hungry. I checked the refrigerator. All Guiness and Modelo up top. Then searched one of the crisper drawers, hoping for a spare string cheese.

Instead, I found P’s cheeseburger half-eaten and wrapped in its paper wrap and tucked into the corner of the drawer, mostly hidden by an extra bottle of Prosecco from the holidays.

I peaked at the burger. Bacon, onions, pickles, and a patty spilled from the bun too tempting to resist. So, I took a small bite. And it tasted good.

Like, so d**n good.

But, I only had the one bite. Then I wrapped the burger in its wrapper and tucked it into its hiding place.

The sun set. The gin continued. So, too, did my nibbling. Every 30 minutes or so I snuck another bite. The next two were small and after the second at least ⅓ of the burger remained. P might not even notice if I stopped now.

But I couldn’t stop.

I kept eating.

Thirty minutes later I had finished P’s bacon cheeseburger. And I felt like s**t because she wanted to save her leftover. Now, I had stolen them.

There’d be some h**l to pay when she found out..

I formed a plan. Took a plain bagel from the pantry. Then a tan notecard from our stationary stash. Wrote on the card:

Sorry, boo.

Larder is a temptress. And I’m its victim.

This card is an I.O.U. - Good for lunch there whenever you wish.

The sandwich was delicious, for what that’s worth.

I’m sorry.

Love,

K

I wrapped the bagel and card in what had been the cheeseburger’s wrapper and braced for impact.

Friends- P accepted my apology. But the ground I walk on shakes. If there’s a lesson here, it’s as simple as not stealing your partner’s leftover cheeseburger.

We love you.

And we’ll see you when we see you.