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  • Pizza Review: Krispy Pizza – Brooklyn, NY

    Pizza Review: Krispy Pizza – Brooklyn, NY

    It was finally time to head into New York for an early Christmas gift to my son. We were going to Krispy Pizza, the Brooklyn location he and I had been watching endlessly on Instagram. Stories, reels, posts. Long before we left Connecticut, the place had taken on a life of its own.

    Getting from Connecticut into Brooklyn is daunting. The GPS offered no clean path and sent us winding through Queens before dropping us toward the southern tip of the island. I assumed it would be an easy hour and a half, like going into Manhattan. Instead, it stretched past two hours. That extra time only inflated expectations.

    This was our family’s first real trip to Brooklyn. Born in the Bronx, with a mother from Queens and a father from Manhattan, Brooklyn had always been the forgotten borough. The red-headed stepchild. No one ever really went there, and anyone who did never had much good to say.

    We were pleasantly surprised. Once we arrived, the neighborhood felt calmer and less dense than the trek through Queens. Most people seemed to be home. The streets were relatively quiet when we pulled in around four or four-thirty.

    We lucked out with street parking and found a meter to cover our time. Across the street, in big red letters, was Krispy Pizza. The sign featured a self-made family crest filled with pizza and the father’s initial, Pete. I wasn’t even sure which door was the entrance. I pulled a handle and suddenly we were inside.

    Instant chaos. A line stretched all the way to the back of the restaurant, with barely enough room to move through the front. I’m not a fan of lines, but after that drive, there was no hesitation.

    During the ride, we had hoped to catch a glimpse of the proprietor we’d watched so many times online. Relief hit when we spotted him. Freddy was there. Dark hair brushed back, streaked with white flecks of mozzarella, his Sicilian skin looking like it had been baked in the same ovens as the pies to a warm Mediterranean glow. He had somehow created his own avatar and cast himself in a real-life movie. A true pizzaiolo. Head down, focused, moving with practiced rhythm.

    As we worked our way through the crowd, my brother and sister-in-law were already there. Instead of pulling a chat-and-cut move, we tried to find tables, which seemed impossible in such a packed place. Somehow, my wife made it happen.

    She struck up a conversation with a young guy holding a table while waiting for his girlfriend, who was stuck in the bathroom line. They had come all the way from Los Angeles and this was their final stop. Instagram fame again.

    She turned around like a daytime talk show host and did it again. Another table appeared. This couple was from Texas. I started wondering how many people in that room were locals and how many had traveled just for this moment.

    We finally sat down and sent in our order. We went with a mix of things to try. I had a regular slice, buffalo chicken, and the famous buffalo chicken pizza wheel. I watched Freddy the entire time. Head down, nonstop. Pie after pie. I wanted my son to go say hello, but it didn’t feel right. The line was long and they were just trying to keep up.

    Here’s where it gets uncomfortable, and probably why I kept hesitating to write this.

    The pizza was okay. Not great. Not bad. Just okay.

    We had built this place up in our heads. We had watched quiet morning videos of Freddy working alone, talking about his father and learning the family business with pride. What we experienced instead was a place that had become a destination. The priority now was survival. Crank out pizza. Keep the line moving.

    We didn’t order a fresh pie. We had slices from pies baked earlier and reheated. It felt rushed. It wasn’t the pizza we had imagined.

    The pizza wheel was my favorite. It was pretty good. But even as I ate it, I found myself thinking about how I could ask my wife, my mother-in-law, or my sister-in-law to recreate it just as well, if not better.

    As we sat there, enjoying our hard-earned tables, the truth settled in. The highlights were what they always are. Being with family. Making time to take an adventure. Stepping out of routine and turning a meal into a memory.

    Some places live better in anticipation than execution. Maybe if my son and I came back at nine in the morning, when the day is just beginning, it would be a different story. Still, that doesn’t make the trip a failure. It’s a reminder that the best part is rarely what’s on the plate, but who’s sitting across from you.

    Pizza score: 6.9

  • The Last Holiday Show

    The Last Holiday Show

    Sunday came and I found myself getting ready, excited to attend our final Christmas show recital. It was Olivia’s last holiday performance as a senior, and it struck me all at once that seventeen years have passed in a blink. Where did all this time go? The days feel long while you’re living them, yet the years slip by before you even have a chance to catch your breath.

    All those seasons of gathering our family for the holiday show came back to me. The performance has always been something special, a bright spot that lifts my mood just as the weather turns cold and dreary. It marks the beginning of Christmas, with all its magic, love, and giving.

    She looked beautiful on that stage. I felt like the proudest father in the audience. Every routine showed how much she’s grown, how hard she’s worked, and how steadily she has become her own person. I remembered those early performances when she was small and nervous, and how each year she stepped out there with more confidence and talent. All the practices, the patience, the late nights, the dedication were visible in every movement.

    I’m grateful to my wife for the countless hours she devoted to making it all possible—practices, recitals, overnight trips—staying steady through the friendship drama, cliques, breakups, and reunions that came with growing up.

    My pride in Olivia is beyond words. I always admired the seniors who stayed committed long enough to reach that moment when they received their flowers. Watching her become one of them felt surreal. Life moves quickly, and moments like this reveal everything that mattered along the way.

    I think about how many things I never finished myself, which makes me even more grateful that my children have their own sense of follow-through. They see things through to the end. They carry a strength that feels like its own kind of blessing. Every day I feel lucky to be their father, and especially blessed to have a daughter as talented, determined, and beautiful as Olivia.

    When the show reached the March of the Wooden Soldiers, my thoughts drifted to my parents. I felt the ache of knowing they weren’t physically with us after all the years they sat in those seats cheering her on, and sometimes dozing off. They didn’t get to see her big senior moment. That ache lasted only a heartbeat before a sense of comfort settled in. I knew they were with us in their own way, watching from a place we couldn’t see, feeling pride and joy beyond anything we could imagine.

    Sitting beside my brother reminded me how grateful I am for him. He has been steady through every chapter of our lives, carrying memories only the two of us share and bringing a sense of grounding and humor that makes our family feel whole. We were still very much the little boys who grew up wrestling, laughing, and knocking into one another. He is the last piece of our original tribe, and having him there made the night feel complete.

    Our extended family filled the row around us, in-laws who have become as real and true as any blood relative. Their presence added warmth to the evening and reminded me how lucky and blessed we are to have such a circle.

    By the end of the night, I felt refilled with love. The kind that settles deep inside you long after the lights fade, quietly reminding you that every step, every year, and every moment is a beautiful mystery worth living.

  • The Championship

    The Championship

    Sponsored by your friends, really your parents, who buy you the experience and cart you there.

    After last week’s game, there was a high. We had beaten the first-place seed, not just beaten them, but come from behind and dusted off the psychological ghosts of games past. Knowing you beat the best team, that you were down and didn’t fold but bore down and made it happen, it’s a powerful feeling, almost intoxicating. You knew you could do it, but now you had. Theory became reality.

    So this was our game to win, and with that comes its own kind of angst. But you take a breath, like always, and go back to the basics: see the ball, hit the ball. Take each play as its own little world and live in that moment, play by play, until you create your game.

    The Five Star Gold was our last hurdle, the obstacle to our goal. We had to find our way through, around, under, and over until we were victorious. Our D2 division had fifty teams, and Gold was the number-two seed. We had never played them before. Arriving just before the game started, I didn’t get a chance to see them field or get a sense of their energy. It doesn’t usually matter; good warm-ups don’t always translate under pressure. Metaphors and aphorisms can cut both ways.

    We got off to a slow start, but the good news was we were making contact. Hitting the ball and timing the pitcher eventually lead to good things. We were the away team but couldn’t produce a run after the first inning. The Gold managed to convert one run after two errors in their half. Luckily, we got out of the first only one run down. The parents were pacing along the third-base line. “They’re just warming up, it’s cold out,” one said. It was nice to have a reason. I nodded, though I couldn’t help thinking the other team was outside too. Didn’t they feel the cold?

    In the second inning we started to heat up, scoring two runs and taking a 2–1 lead. The wind started to blow again. We cooled off until the fourth, when a pitching change let us break through for four more. Suddenly it was 6–1. We were quietly optimistic, some of us a little louder, but cautious not to jinx it, just staying positive. Our pitching and fielding were outstanding, shutting the other team out for three more innings.

    By the fifth inning, it was 8–1. The cold wind that had been cutting through was forgotten as the clouds parted and we basked in the fall sun. In the sixth, we were on fire. The other team began to unravel. It’s the oldest cliché in baseball: it all comes down to pitching. We were hitting, yes, but also drawing walks, grinding out at-bats, playing with rhythm and confidence. You could feel it; the whole team was a unit, and they were all feeding and contributing to this win.

    Then Kevin came to the plate with the bases loaded and drove the stake in with a bomb to the outfield, clearing the bases for three runs. Like Icarus, he flew too close to the sun, trying to stretch a double into a triple, and got caught. I was jumping around myself like a kid hoping he’d make it, but he did his job and gave them mercy.

    Now up 15–1, the Gold had one last chance. Three at-bats, three outs. Joe, who had pitched all six innings of this championship game, finished like a star, striking out the final batter swinging. For a moment, time froze. Then the outfield crashed in, all the boys running to the mound, piling on one another in a swirl of laughter and joy.

    Just like that, we had champions in our midst. What an arc from our last fall season.

    For James, it was his first championship win on any team. So many runner-up finishes, so many consolation prizes. So close, so many times. It made me realize why this was the right time and why it felt deeper. He finally had the right team, a group of kids who loved and cared about doing the thing they loved. Maybe that’s what made it hit deeper. You only learn how to win by learning how not to. This victory wasn’t luck; it was layered with all the years of almosts, all the bruises and disappointments, all the small lessons that built the resilience to finally finish the job.

    As the team gathered for the photo, faces flushed, caps tilted, medals being bitten in the midday light, you could feel something bigger than baseball. It was joy, sure, but also proof. Proof that grit, patience, and faith in one another can build something lasting.

    That’s the beauty of a championship. It’s the journey, the stumbles, the rise, the shared heartbeat of a team that finally believed it could get there.

  • The Playoffs

    The Playoffs

    Driving down to our playoff game, the mood in the car is relaxed. So much has changed since we started our travel, competitive AAU baseball journey, even since last fall. Back then, we were a new team, a group of kids coming together from the western side of Connecticut with a few New York drop-ins. No single town was overly represented; we were all looking to get away from the small-town Babe Ruth baseball we’d played for the last five years and find something grander.

    It’s hard to describe your emotional state as a spectator and parent on the sideline. It’s like having your heart walk out of your chest and start hitting and catching balls. You pray, hope, and will things to happen from the fence, wishing to see your kid succeed in their own effort while keeping the team’s momentum alive. It really is an emotional roller coaster that you do your best to keep hidden as you coolly post up on the side of the fence.

    Our feelings that day were subdued, a kind of quiet solitude going into the game. We’d had an amazing season, only really facing a few defeats. The Patriots were the number one seed in our division or group, whatever you want to call it. When we beat them earlier in the season, it seemed they thought it was a fluke, a one-off their coach told them to shrug off.

    I remembered one of their fathers from a previous spring or summer game bragging about how his son was so talented that everyone wanted him on their team. He said that this wasn’t even his son’s “real” team, that it was the level below, and on that day, they beat us. He was the kind of dad who knew everything about everything, his sideline gear manufactured by pretension. He was a John Kreese type who expected victory, preached “Mercy is for the weak,” and could imagine punching through a car window if his son failed.

    Now we were playing his son’s team — the A team, the gold or diamond-level best. I hadn’t forgotten, because that kind of peacocking surety in a game of probabilities leaves a stink you don’t forget.

    We got off to a great start, two runs batted in, momentum on our side. Our pitching was superb, and we closed the first inning up 2–0. That held until the third inning, when two quick outs were followed by an error that let in two runs. We’ve never been the kind of team to rally with two outs, and we always seemed to face teams that did.

    We escaped the inning tied 2–2, but then the errors came, and we couldn’t hit anymore. The tie turned to 2–4, then another run came in. You could feel the momentum shift. The other team’s parents, whose voices somehow sounded like nails on a chalkboard, started chirping, and I walked down the line muttering a few expletives to myself.

    We entered the seventh inning down 2–5 but starting with the top of our lineup. I was restrained but hopeful. It was our best shot, though being down three runs felt heavy. James singled on a line drive to center, and we had a man on base. A dash of energy stirred as Will hit a fielder’s choice to second. Thankfully, James stayed up instead of sliding, and the baseman couldn’t complete the double play. One out.

    Up next, Joe hit a clean single down the line, putting runners on first and second. Our big hitter, Liam, stepped up. The stars aligned; the outfield was playing too shallow, and he crushed one to left that rolled to the fence. Two runs were scored, and now it was 4–5.

    They changed pitchers. Casey was hit by the new hurler and took a base. Runners on first and third. Keegan smacked one down the line, bringing Liam home and tying the game. Our runner advanced to second. Two outs. Tommy came up to bat and knocked a solid hit to left, bringing Casey home. 6–5, Rangers Black.

    We just had to hold them for one more at-bat.

    Then, like Maximus fighting the northern tribes, Will unleashed hell from the mound. Three pitches, three strikes, one out. The second out came from Kai making a ground play to first. Now two outs, no runners. The parents were burning up in the cool forty-five-degree air. We were doing all the chirping now. Their last batter popped one up, and Tommy charged in for a tough catch to close it out.

    It felt incredible. Even as I write this, I can feel the energy again — the kids shouting and sprinting toward one another. A hard-fought victory, not just over their opponent but over themselves. They learned what it means to stay calm, stay focused, and win through mindset as much as skill.

    As we drove home, the energy of the game still filled the car. We replayed the moments, analyzed the plays, and basked in the joy of his experience. All the gripes about playing on a cold Sunday night an hour from home disappeared, and even the smell of his cleats couldn’t touch this high. For one night, this was our World Series, and nothing on TV could compare to the greatness we felt out there under the lights.

  • Day Off with my Boy

    Day Off with my Boy

    A day brought to you by Miss Lil, my sweet and beautiful mother. I remember our day-off-from-school tradition, Mom, running errands together, buying a book at our corner bookstore in Danbury right next to future Walmart. We would have lunch, talk, and simply be together. Those were our special days.

    James and I had our day and kept the tradition alive. We went to the mall, stopped at Round 1, played our video games and coin pushers, and then faced off in air hockey. I eked out a win, 7 to 6. He was annoyed, but come on, give a middle-aged dad something. 😊

    We wandered the mall afterward and grabbed coffee at Barnes & Noble. The smell of books brought me right back to those afternoons with you. I still have my laminated Waldenbooks gift card. My fantasy books back then were five dollars, and you were always happy to get me one.

    I went looking for an Ethiopian Bible, of course I did, but they didn’t have one. We kept walking. On Level One, James found a video game for the Switch. I asked if he would always remember this day. He said yes without hesitation.

    It’s hard sometimes, because as much as I want to, I’ve forgotten so much. You start to feel like you’re losing the person or that you didn’t pay enough attention. But it’s just the way of being human—to forget. I’ve come to trust that when I die, it will all return: the joyous, wonderful memories, every detail. So I don’t sweat it anymore.

    I always think of that scene at the end of A.I. when the boy finally gets to spend a perfect last day with his mother. It hits harder now than ever before. He just wanted that one sacred day where he was the beloved son, being together and basking in her light.

    We headed to Buffalo Wild Wings next. They seated us like cattle waiting at the trough. I get annoyed being treated that way and rage quietly, but I stayed put; it was fine. Our waitress was clearly fighting battles greater than my imagined societal rules, so I let it go. Fifteen quick wings before the movie—spicy garlic and our family staple, salt and vinegar dry rub. They forgot our veggies, but we got them in the end. I wasn’t about to forgo included accoutrements. I am my mother’s son.

    Then came our main event, Tron: Ares at the Southbury Movie Theater, the last great local cinema around. It’s a throwback to the golden age: quiet, clean, and no nonsense. The elderly man who takes the tickets will take them until his body fails.

    I was happy to see only a handful of people in the audience, and the seats were perfectly cozy. I said, “Aren’t these seats amazing compared to when I was a kid?” James smirked, “You mean when they were wooden seats?” “No,” I said, “I’m not that old.” He laughed and said it was something Mima once said, and I told him that made sense.

    Back then our theater seats were close and stiff, with no recline, no heat. We were practically on top of one another. You had to pick your spot carefully and pray there weren’t disruptive kids in the row behind you kicking you in the back.

    We expected a complete train wreck of a movie based on a few YouTube titles, but we didn’t watch them. As Frank Costanza would say, “I like to go in fresh!” And I did. It turned out to be a fun, surprising romp through the digital world brought to life by The Dude himself, Jeff Bridges, the spectral father of 80s neon creation.

    On the drive home, we talked about the movie. I’m always struck by how similarly we think. My son is a digital reflection of me, thankfully better in every way and still uniquely himself. People say you shouldn’t be a fan of your own children, but how could you not be? How can you not be in awe of God’s creation, our own slice of heaven on earth?

    Our task as parents is to raise them, but along the way, we are the ones transformed. In guiding them, we rediscover what it means to live fully.

    “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.” — James 1:17

  • Diner Review: Goshen Plaza Diner – Goshen, NY

    Diner Review: Goshen Plaza Diner – Goshen, NY

    Our second outing to the Goshen Diner, which is actually the Goshen Plaza Diner even though it’s not in a plaza. Maybe that was the hopeful dream of its first proprietor—an empire of storefronts that never came to fruition. Our first trip here followed a demoralizing Frozen Ropes Baseball Tournament, where dismayed parents plotted a revolt against the head coach.

    This time it was just the three of us, reflecting on today’s game in the same tournament, which was going much better. By chance, we ended up at the same table. The booth on the left fit the table exactly, while the booth on the right stretched awkwardly far, as if built for a missing fourth diner. I sat there the first time, hunched sideways over my plate. That odd design, along with the faux wooden panel above us decorated with an American flag and perched eagle, gave the place its peculiar charm.

    The menu was classic diner fare with extras, the kind of list that makes you think of Pee-wee telling Dotty, “It’s a thing you wouldn’t understand… a thing you couldn’t understand.” Prices ran two or three dollars cheaper than other diners we’ve visited lately, which likely explained why the place was hopping on a Saturday night. We were surrounded by a rush of senior citizens, a kind of corralling of prescription-powered, hungry elderly looking to stretch their social security checks.

    Our waiter, a young man with a sunny attitude, seemed half-present and half already imagining a future where he’d escaped diner monotony. Still, he was attentive enough.

    I briefly stressed over some of the more unusual menu items but settled on my old reliable: the Farmer’s Omelet—yellow American cheese, veggies, bacon, sausage chunks, rye toast, coleslaw, home fries, and a decaf coffee.

    The service dragged with the crowd, and hunger set us on edge. Then, like a leprechaun popping out of a rainbow’s backside, our server appeared with the food. A few sides were missing, but my omelet and potatoes were excellent—flavorful enough to be memorable despite how often I order them.

    Across the table, my wife faced a crisis. No white toast. She always starts with toast dipped in over-easy eggs, and its absence forced her onto the pancakes instead. The anger monkeys were on her back, throwing things, and we were about to get hit. The fuse was short before all hell broke loose. I buried myself in my plate, silently praying the bread would appear. Fortunately, it arrived in time, and peace was restored.

    In the end, the experience was pleasant. We ate, we talked baseball, and we absorbed the diner’s rhythms. At six o’clock the place was packed; by seven it had emptied to only a few tables. The turnover was so fast it was almost invisible—efficient, seamless, like the diner itself. As we left, we noticed they were voted Best Diner in 2023 and 2024, and if they keep the coffee hot and the toast coming, I don’t see anyone stealing that crown.

    Final Verdict 7.55/10

  • Remembering Pocmont

    Remembering Pocmont

    Driving to Kalahari this Sunday with my brother and son, we took an unexpected diversion and ended up going down memory lane on Route 209 South. Going to the Poconos is a special part of our family history. For my parents, it was their destination for a romantic honeymoon-style escape at places like Cove Haven and Paradise Stream. They were “Forever Lovers,” VIP members from long ago. They always spoke fondly of those resorts and their time there, saying how quickly the years had passed and how the places just weren’t what they used to be.

    Before everyone had bigger ambitions, driving two hours into the wilderness was the vacation, especially for city people. Back then you went either to the mountains or to the shore. The idea of taking a plane for a getaway was a radical departure from their modest upbringing and surroundings.

    Pocmont became another special place for us. Once my mother grew comfortable with the area and the drive, she would find a weekend, or more often several weekdays, to take advantage of better prices and bring my brother and me.

    Pocmont Lodge was one of those classic old-school Pocono resorts that had a bit of everything rolled into one. Families came in the summer for a week, parked the car, and never had to leave the property. It was a kind of limited Dirty Dancing experience, with enough activities and entertainment to fill every day.

    The food setup was classic resort dining hall style, with buffets and communal seating. The atmosphere was family-friendly but still appealing to couples on a weekend escape. I remember we had the same server for the whole trip, and we’d quickly become best friends with them. They would sneak us extra dinner rolls, bring more drinks, or even slip my mom another entrée that she would stash away in her Mary Poppins bag for her growing boys. It became an epic doggy bag for a dog who was never there.

    The campus in Bushkill was sprawling, with a lodge, conference facilities, and plenty of outdoor activities. Guests could enjoy indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, shuffleboard, and golf. In winter there was skiing nearby, and in summer there were organized games and entertainment. At night we would go to the live shows: cabaret-style performances, music, and comedy. Danny and I even played bocce ball with the Italian men and somehow won a weekly tournament one year, much to their surprise.

    Most of our days were spent playing ping pong in the arcade room. Ping pong is our family sport, if a family can have a sport. My mom was our teacher; she learned and played as a child at one of the city’s summer camps. We had a table at home eventually, but before that, Pocmont was where we practiced for hours, trying to beat one another on that resort table.

    Those weekends at Pocmont were our special trio getaways. It was all my mom. She worked hard to make those trips possible, saving her twenties, fifties, and hundreds. She put her own touch on every detail. The resort was fun, and the game room with its ping pong table was our anchor.

    I loved that time with Danny and my mom. The warmth, love, and adventure of those days still course through my spirit. I didn’t realize until today that our trip was an unspoken homage to our past. It was part of that unknown reason we have always been drawn back to this area. To revisit the ghosts of a well-lived childhood, filled with blessings and love. A love note to my mother for all that she did for us, and a way to keep her spirit alive through our commitment to each other and the next generation.

  • Epic Universe Part 3 – The Finale

    Epic Universe Part 3 – The Finale

    After our relaxing meal, crisscrossing back to Super Mario, we made our way out of Donkey Kong Country and into the Mushroom Kingdom. Our destination was Mario Kart Racing. This game is a favorite for both of us, and we are equally competitive against the AI and each other. We decided to use our Express Pass here to cut down on the wait.

    The inside of the ride and queue were excellent, full of detail and excitement. But the ride itself was a disappointment. The augmented reality glasses are a neat feature, but they do not succeed at immersing you in the race. The speed is painfully slow, one of the slowest in the park, and no amount of screens or AR could make up for that. I never felt like we were really moving or racing anyone.

    I had been excited about the idea of collecting power-ups, but the ride just gave you an endless supply of turtle shells. I ended up spamming them into nothing. Halfway through I lost interest and just casually tossed shells and spun the wheel without caring much. The whole thing felt more like a Disney water ride than a Universal attraction, which is the opposite of what Universal usually delivers.

    Our last stop in Mushroom Kingdom was Yoshi’s Ride, which was a big nothing. It is basically a slow loop around the area for younger kids. The highlight is seeing the land from above, but otherwise it is simple and forgettable. The colored eggs on my kart did not add much, and I kept wishing they had included some interior cut scenes or more surprises. For me, this ride needs a serious boost. I had expected Mario Kart to be the standout, but the real champ of the day was still the Mine Karts.

    From there we returned to the How to Train Your Dragon region for some nighttime rides, the Wing Gliders and the Pyre Fire Boats. The water ride was actually kind of fun. It reminded me of a half-dream memory of combining American Gladiators with a water ride, blasting other boats with water cannons. The real joy was soaking other riders and watching them get frazzled, heated, and then burst out laughing. To be fair, those spinning wooden wheels that turn when you soak them did feel like a last-minute idea that somehow made it through management.

    As the sun set, we strolled back through all the lands again, starting with the Ministry of Magic in Paris. This time we slowed down, really taking in the details, the atmosphere, and of course another butterbeer. We ended up back in Darkmoor for our third and final ride of the day on our favorite attraction, Monsters Unchained.

    The last ride of the night was the Constellation Carousel, glowing under the stars. It was a calm and fitting end to an epic day. I did not ride, it was enough for me to watch my son circle slowly under the stars, completing his list of every ride in the park. Meanwhile, I was still recovering from my final, bruising ride on the Stardust Racers. 

    I try hard to record these memories deeply in my mind, carving grooves that last a lifetime. This was one of those adventures that will last. I am so blessed, lucky, and grateful for this time together. It is a fleeting window, the teenage years before driving at sixteen, those rare years when everything still feels possible before responsibility takes over.   By the time we walked out, the park was quiet and glowing. We had conquered kingdoms, battled monsters, raced through galaxies, and sailed dragon skies. It felt like the closing of an epic quest, one that will always live in our story.