Mike. Or Mick, as Dad would call him. I guess he’s even answered to MO at a job where there were three Mike’s, but he’d have to share that with me, so…no.
Mike was born with red hair and eyes of wonder. Literally, I’m not sure when he grew into them, but he always had the most questioning eyes as a child. Being number 10 in the crowd, it should be no surprise to learn that they had his birthday wrong for the first 11 years of his life. It wasn’t discovered until Dad tried to enroll him into Little League where the minimum age was 12. The guy doing the sign-up said he couldn’t join because his birthday wasn’t until the 29th. Dad said, no, it was just last week on the 19th. The guy said, uh, no, look here at his birth certificate. Mm-hmm, yeah.
It didn’t really seem to phase him, though. He still grew up happy and healthy, tall and athletic, playing b’ball in high school. At college, he met Therese, who coincidentally was also the 10th of 11 kids. To say they’re a match made in heaven would be an understatement.
Mike has a very dry sense of humor and can pull off a practical joke with the seriousness of a Jedi. He convinced me once he used to have the exact same nightmare that I did, even seeming to explain his so similarly to mine. I have yet to know for sure if he actually did or if he’s just pulling my leg. He’s a master, with a winning smile on an Irish mug, a sweetheart of a guy.
Probably one of my favorite things about Mike is the way he seems interested in you and yours. He’ll ask specific questions and really listen to the answer, engaging and affirming. He also gave us another Charlie O’Connor. Not a bad move, Mick.