There he is, index finger raised to lips, chiding me gently to be quiet, letting me know that it’ll all be better soon. But it won’t be better, Starlin, it just won’t. Where else will I find such a meme-able mug? Who else can I alternately defend and deride, sometimes in the same inning?
Yours was the first shirsey my son, then a toddler, ever wore. Your debut game, which I watched just before heading to the theater to catch Iron Man II. For a hot minute or two, you were the only thing worth watching on a black hole of a team from which not even the bright light of your indefatigable spirit could escape.