Popop, you absolute deadbeat. You’re old Phillies shirt didn’t work. Of course, you’d take all the magic with you. Forever the showman.

You know I’m kidding. I’m just stopping by to say hi. It could have been worse. They could have lost to the Braves. That being said…

Shaving the playoff beard was a bummer. You could tell the guys really liked being around each other. Harper looks like the evil prince in a Disney movie, but Schwarber is my favorite. There’s no reason for a guy that thick to hit bombs and somehow still steal bases left and right. It was a lot of fun, especially seeing the athletes from other teams get into it.

There is something wildly romantic about baseball: the greenest grass you’ve ever seen against a city skyline, the stare down between batter and pitcher. It’s a gunfight at high noon, all the way from the unmistakable pop of a ball against the barrel, to the snap of the catcher’s mitt when a fastball rifles its way in.

“Sports are not about winning or losing. They’re about the moments, the good and the bad.”

If you gave me a jailhouse phone call with you, I really wouldn’t have much to say. We could always talk without talking. I just want you to know I’m well. Ten toes tall.

Sometimes I worry I’ll never calm down, but I also hope I don’t… at least in some ways.

The barbell has been kind. We may or may not have had the annual viewing of Tom Hardy in “Warrior”, so traps and forearms have been kind of the pet project at the moment. White boy tatted. White boy spatted. I’ve had to be careful to take extra care of my hands, but better to wear out than rust out, right?

I put the skates back on recently. I’ve still got it. I was surprised. It’s been years since I laced ‘em up. But it felt really good to put the cape back on. I wish Nike made black Air Force Ones in skate form… time to put the C back on my chest. There’s talk of forming the “It’s Always Sonny” line because everyone still loves you so much.

“As Clarkie goes, the Flyers go.”

We’re whoopin’ on ‘em Popop. I never played JV in my life, and I’m not about to start now. I promise you that. I’m still trying to decide on a specialty between surgery, oncology, pediatrics, or some combination therein. You know I need to be in the thick of it. I could never survive a laboratory, at least not on any long-term basis, but that’s all “a ways away.” If John Grisham can be a lawyer and write books for airport convenience stores, why can’t I be meathead Dr. Seuss?

Remember that bat signal sign Mr. Mitch gave me when I was really little? It’s still, out front. “The Prince of Gotham.” It still makes me smile.

I’m probably not sleeping enough. Uncle Seanie is probably due for a vacation, maybe a good camping trip, maybe some surfing or diving, and definitely some dancing… but I’m well. I saw A’s horses recently. That’s always fun. I still shoot good pool.

Your birthday’s coming up, but right now it’s Dallas week. You know what that means. I hope your mojo has recharged because Christ knows you were of no help to the Phillies. Maybe you were just saving it up for the real bad guys. The Dallas Cowboys.

Vive la Résistance. There are jackboots marching on rain soaked Parisienne cobblestones down les Champs-Élysées. Doc Martens stomping on le Pont Neuf, making their way to l’île de la Cité… and we don’t tolerate such things.

I love you, but that’s nothing you don’t already know. I know you can’t hear me. Dead men tell no tales, and bodies can’t snitch. But that’s fine. This is for me. Tell Grandmom I said hi. I hope she finally let you get a motorcycle. You can be Steve McQueen, but I call Paul Newman.

“O Captain! My Captain!” – Walt Whitman

Happy early birthday Popop. Go Birds. Beat Dallas.

Sean