Imagine that you have these two friends, a man and a woman, and they decide to make a baby. You’re thrilled, right? These are your friends, after all, and spawning this tiny little human is just a freakin’ miracle. Fact is, you couldn’t be happier for them.
So one day, you’re kickin’ it with these friends of yours and they get around to asking you what you’d name their baby. Being the jokester that you are, you neglect the flattery of the moment, opting instead to giggle and say, “Rufus.” You laugh, and they laugh, and everyone’s having fun, at which point you all take another hit off the bong (joking…don’t do that, kids…especially when you’re pregnant, bad idea) and go back to enjoying your evening.
Anyway, a couple days later, after you’ve all had a chance to recover, your two friends sit you down once again and say, “Alex, we have some good news.”
And you’re like, “Fantastic, I love good news.”
And then they look you square in the eye and say, “We’re naming our baby Rufus, just like you said.”
At first you laugh, but then you realize they’re serious and you can’t believe what you’re hearing. You’re filled with disbelief and delight all at once. What an amazing accomplishment. You’ve just named this baby! Your friends’ baby, no less. So you hug them, you thank them, and then you hope to God that this poor child turns out okay and doesn’t get his ass kicked all throughout his formative years for having a name as ridiculous as Rufus, a name you gave him, no less.
Many years later, young Rufus has matured. He has come to fruition, has your godson. And wouldn’t you know it, he’s an absolute superstar. Quarterback of the football team, all-state bowler, member of the math club, plays a mean piccolo, valedictorian…you know, typical stuff. Amidst all the hubbub, there you are, proud godfather that you are, having named this freak of a human being and witnessed his development, witnessed his path to glory. In this snapshot of your very existence, this microcosm of your mortality, you, friend, have found your Shangri-La.
All of which leads me to the Ryan Divish Story.
This Emmy-award winning (in my own mind) piece of journalistic excellence was composed by my dear friend Lindsey Thiry, who many of you may remember as the Mariners’ original Rally Fry girl. These days, Lindsey is the sports reporter at KFBB in the bustling metropolis of Great Falls, Montana. A few weeks back, whilst looking for a story, she stumbled upon my other dear friend, Ryan Divish, and wouldn’t you know it, they made a baby.
(Not really. But kind of.)
Lindsey decided to do a True Hollywood-esque profile on Divish. To say it was magnificent would be an understatement. Not only did this glorious biopic exceed all expectations, Lindsey was operating under remarkable pressure in putting this piece together. Forced to make lemonade out of a lemon, she also had the ENTIRE sports media contingent in the Greater Seattle area anxiously awaiting the end result of her efforts. And when it was all said and done, we came, we watched, and we marveled at the Spielberg-like transformation of this stocky, big-domed, half-Asian man into a larger-than-life, puka-shell-wearing demigod.
And before this thing went live, Lindsey asked what she should name this baby. And I, half-jokingly, suggested From Havre to Heaven. The rest is history.
Ultimate pride. Ultimate. Pride.