(To the tune of "Hey Milesy...")
HEY MILESY, MILESY, MILESY. YOU ARE MY MILESY, MILES.
HEY, MILESY, MILESY, MILESY. YOU ARE MY MILESY, MILES!
Mema wrote a nice post about us on Facebook a couple of months ago. It was as much fiction as it was nonfiction, but she got the gist of the story right. The final game of your regular High School baseball season, you hit an over-the-fence homerun, to help your team win! (It was spectacular.)
Mema's post suggested I started practicing with you when you were seven years old. Fact is, I started much sooner than that.
I started before you were born.
As soon as your mom announced she was having a boy, I started tossing a baby toy softball to her belly every time I saw her. You caught it almost every time.
I hope you still have that toy ball, and I hope you plan on bringing it to college with you. It's a heartwarming story that you may someday want to share with a special friend.
I also hope you will mention it during your acceptance speech
to the Baseball Hall of Fame.
But this isn't about your accomplishments on the ball field; it's about your prowess in academia. Your graduation.
I had very little to do with that. That was all you, nothing but you. (Maybe an occasional boost from your mom.)
But is that really true? I don't often quote Hillary Clinton, but maybe it does really take a village to raise a child. I like to think your whole family helped in some way, even if it was just having patience as we waited for you to become the young man you are today.
Congratulations, Miles. You did it.
We did it. (But it was mostly you.) Very proud.
Love, Pop
