Lucky

The Indians keep rolling. I love September baseball.

Perhaps I've mentioned it before. If I haven't, well, I love September baseball.

I feel like the luckiest guy alive. Tomorrow night, I'm taking Mackenzie out on a date. We'll probably get dinner, see a movie; maybe play a game of putt-putt. It'll be really nice, but that's not really the point.

The point is this: she's 14 years old, and she still likes spending time with me. A lot of 14 year old girls -- probably most 14 year olds -- don't want to spend time with their (old) (stupid) (boring) dads. Maybe that day will come for us too -- I suspect it surely will -- but for now, I'm reveling in the closeness of the relationship we have.

Recently, at school, the kids were given an assignment to write about the person they most admired. They both -- both! -- wrote about me. Of course, that little voice inside me screams that I don't deserve to be admired by them (or anyone), but that's peripheral to the fact that they think of me in such a light.

I feel like the luckiest guy alive.