So this is how my brain works. Or, truly, why it often doesn’t work.
A few moments ago I found myself chatting with a Starbucks barista named Titus.
“Great name,” I said.
“Thanks,” Titus replied.
Then I walked off and immediately—like, a second later—began thinking of Titus Dixon, the undersized wide receiver out of Troy State. Back in 1989 Dixon was a sixth round pick of the New York Jets, and there was much talk about his tremendous hands, his burst, his twitch. This was the draft when the Jets used a first round pick to take Jeff Lageman of Virginia—even when most everyone agreed he would have been available two rounds later.
Anyhow, Dixon played in four games with the Jets, then bounced around a bunch of teams before settling into a pretty OK Arena League career. And he was such a typical Jet sorta guy at the time. I mean, Titus Dixon wasn’t merely small. He was 5-foot-6. Which translates to: Not an NFL player.
Anyhow, there’s a barista here.
His name is Titus.
