A little preamble: I am a fan of the Yankee Football. My team is the New York Giants. Because I grew up in New York, and that's what you do. For Christmas a few years ago, my wife bought me a Tiki Barber jersey, which I wore to games with pride until last year, when a freshly retired Tiki became a persona non grata by criticising his former team. Everything Tiki-related was loudly and heartily booed in Giants Stadium. (Which is a shame, because he was one hell of an athlete—one of the best to ever play for any team.) My wife asked me, idly, who I'd want on a new jersey. I told her that rather than risk a current player once again falling out of favor, I wanted someone immortal. I wanted Lawrence Taylor.
Flash forward to this past weekend. My wife and four-year-old son, Luc, come back from running some errands. Luc bounds over and says "Daddy, you got a prize."
"Really?" I say. "What'd did I win?"
"No, you got a surprise. Number 56."
Barely stifling my laughter, I say "No, buddy...you're supposed to keep a surprise to yourself."
"A blue 56. On a shirt. For you."
The cutest ruining of a birthday surprise EVER.