Lately my wife has started to get irked with me. For some reason I’ve been on the Slam Magazine comp list forever. Which means that once every month, when Slam arrives in the mail, I excitedly ask my 3-year-old son to pick which poster he wants to hang in his room. Thus far, he’s got Slam-ups of Rajon Rondo, Lamar Odom, Dwyane Wade, Deron Williams and Vince Carter hanging strong. “Does he really need another one?” The Wife asks. “It’s starting to look pretty sloppy.”
I don’t think she understands how sacred a boy’s room is; how only a little wuss would have his four walls decorated with neatly hung Rockwell portraits and family photos. A boy needs junk; crap; awkwardly hung posters and ripped corners and little shards of tape here and there.
I bring this up because tonight, while digging through old photos for my high school reunion, I stumbled upon the above picture, which is my bedroom, circa 1986. Man, I sure wish I still had that room. Or at least the Rickey poster. (the tight-fitting Orioles jersey—not so good)
