An Open Cover Letter to the Delta Beta Fraternity

Dear Brothers of the Ancient and Illustrious Fraternal Order of Daddy Bloggers (ΔB):

Salutations. Let me begin by expressing my deep and sincere admiration for your esteemed organization. I confess I have never been a joiner, but after exhaustive research conducted over the course of several minutes I have concluded that the Delta Betas are my kind of people.

In short: I want in. Let me clarify: if you’ll have me.

What makes me think I’m Delta Beta material? Let me enumerate:

1. I’m a dad.

2. I have a WordPress blog.

3. I used to be a sportswriter.

Granted, only two out of those three qualities actually apply. But considering the army of applicants I’m sure you’re considering for membership, I decided to include one colorful detail in my cover letter to burnish my credentials.

Did it work? Can I become a ΔB?

Oh. I see. So, that’s how it’s going to be.

Well, perhaps I should add that I can recite the dialogue (verbatim) of every episode of Phineas and Ferb. I know from the pirated copy of the 2012 ΔB Handbook that I found on Twitter that this skill is required for consideration by your august body, so maybe I should have listed it among my qualifications to begin with. But also? In my car’s CD player RIGHT NOW is Volume I of the Phineas and Ferb soundtrack.

That’s how I deciphered the ultra-secret ΔB password: Bow-chicka-bow-wow. And furthermore: Gitchi-gitchi-goo.

I’m sure you’re impressed. I know my wife was.

But why? Why would anyone willingly seek the peril of life on the front lines of daddy blogging? What kind of imbecile would actually choose to forego a peaceful life of solitude, broken only by the constant din of bedtime wailing and playtime bickering between my kindergartener and preschooler?

THIS kind of imbecile, evidently.

To be frank, my future ΔB brothers (fingers crossed!), I need the creative outlet. As I might have mentioned earlier, I used to be a sportswriter. That meant I worked nights and weekends, and I traveled – a lot. It was the best of jobs. It was the worst of jobs. But mostly, it was a job that allowed me to go to games and write about them.

It wasn’t really that simple, of course. Sometimes the games got rained out. But for 24 years, there was always another game to go to. Now? My boys know nothing of that life. That’s good, in a way, because I believe the life of a sportswriter is not compatible with being a daddy. Some guys can do it. I don’t know how they cope with missing so much of their kids’ lives, but they do it and apparently are none the worse for it. Apparently.


It’s also bad that my sons don’t know anything about that part of my life. Because man, it was cool being a sportswriter. If there’s one thing I miss, it’s that sense of BEING THERE. I want them to know what it was like for me to have BEEN THERE for so long. I’m glad they aren’t exposed to it now, because otherwise I couldn’t be HERE for them the way I want to be. The way I need to be.

But one day, they’ll care about what I did before they came along, just like I care about my dad’s hell-raising days in the `60s as the lead guitarist for the Stones. At least, I think that’s what he did. Yeah, I’m sure that was it.

Do you see, though, future ΔB brothers? I come to you in all humility, hoping you will allow me to join your ranks in order to share stories with my young sons (and you, my ΔB brethren, as well as anyone else who accidently stumbles across about my life as a sportswriter, and how it might (or might not) have shaped me prior to fatherhood.

Or something.

How, exactly, is my old life connected to today?

Um. Aw, hell. I don’t know. Never mind.



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