Stabbone at 30

Today is my idiot brother's 30th birthday.  It also happens to be the day of his big tryout with the new NBA D-League team, the Canton Charge.  What business does a thirty-year-old have on the same court with much younger and much taller NBA aspirants?  Understand that my brother grew up idolizing an overachiever named Mark Price, a six-foot point guard drafted in the second round who went on to become an all-NBA first-teamer with the Cavaliers.  I think my brother always saw a bit of himself in Mark Price--the tenacity, the fearlessness, the sensible haircut--and I think that must have contributed in some way in his decision to go for it this weekend.

Should my brother similarly beat long odds and make the team, he would be the first in our family to play professional sports since our great uncle Grant had a cup of coffee with the White Sox in the early '30s.  Uncle Grant drifted west once his playing days were over and became known as the "Gentleman Pimp of Denver."  He was found face down in the prairie with a bullet in his back, but that's fodder for another day's blog.

Because today is Stabbone's big day, and to celebrate I shall pour a Bombay martini on the rocks with a twist and two olives.  I will not pour two Bombay martinis on the rocks with a twist and two olives, just in case my sometimes-pregnant wife decides to go into labor.

So this martini is for you, jab.  Though the younger and lesser brother you may be, ever striving toward your lodestar (me), you've come a long way.  After a mere 30 years of living, you've found an awesome gal and a great job in the promised land.  Now you're saying 'fuck it' to the world and pursuing a dream.  For that, I'm proud of you.

Happy birthday, idiot.

nwb