This is Philadelphia Eagles lineman Chuck Bednarik, after winning the 1960 NFL Championship.
This is how I feel, at the end of August.
On the many days the sun has shown this month, I've been on my motorcycle, or running by Lake Michigan, or playing tennis with my daughter, or having a drink on the back porch with my wife.
And when it has rained, the garden has gotten watered.
This month I reconnected with an old friend and reconvened with an old colleague. I deepened a young friendship that feels a thousand years old and further strengthened one of the strongest relationships in my life. And then there was the annual golf weekend where I got to be in eight grade again, losing a farting contest 30-15, because the other guy cheated and ate beans for dinner.
There has been a lot of work, as always. My work is writing, reading, talking, listening. Next to my office window, where a summer breeze puffs life itself into my old lungs, like spiritual CPR. Which I also got from you, too—not just by pre-ordering my book An Effort to Understand in crazy numbers, but with all the notes of encouragement that you sent along with it.
I've been just public enough of a person to know thoroughly and finally that strangers who appreciate your work are only numbers, and their appreciation is the thinnest gruel. But to have friends who respect your contribution—well, that's why people want to be famous in the first place. I'm already there.
There's a lot to look forward to this fall—the book, a trip next month to Africa with a close colleague, our busy conference season—and enough to be apprehensive about, too. As always. But today?
My dad once wrote an article about nostalgia, titled, "We Never Know When We're Happy."
Well I'm happy this morning, my friends. I'm as happy as Chuck Bednarik.