It was while on vacation in San Diego this summer that I first flirted with the idea of becoming a southpaw, but then again I don't recall it that well.
What I do recall was that the sandy white beaches down there are a kid's paradise, perfect for running and sprinting like an Energizer bunny, as only an eight-year-old kid can do. We stayed at Dad's friend's place while we were down there and played catch in his front yard, tossing around the pigskin. Back then, I was always dragging Daddy outside to play something, or at least trying my damnedest to.
"You wanna play football? I'll be the Chargers. Who do you wanna be?" Bouncing up and down, back and forth with the persistent, annoying energy of a kid. "Who do you wanna be, Dad? C'mon. Who do you wanna be?"
"Ummm....I'll be the L.A. Rams, OK?"
"OK...Kickoff!" Bouncing up and down...I think me and my daddy both knew, and I basically reinforced for him, that you can either be this or that, but you have to be something...
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