and you can kiss my lad goodbye...
Dropping you down in Winona Tuesday, I knew everything was gonna be just fine. I can see you running along the river bluffs and blowing 'em away in chem and physics. Plus, your roommate Brent seems like a good enough guy. And don't think for a minute that I missed those glances you got in Prentiss Hall.
Oh, you'll have a fine time in college! Just ask for help when you need it, drop the course before you fail it (yer current MWF schedule is way too ambitious), and call me anytime. You know I don't sleep, son, and already I miss you sorely.
So, now that you're gone, I've gotta find somebody to run hills with in the morning and bump shoulders with after supper, and (when properly provoked) to put a fist through the drywall with during those Green Bay games. I'll give you until spring semester, but after that I'm ebaying the size-16 football cleats, rugby boots, and wrestling shoes you left by the back door. It isn't because I'm a neat-freak but because I get a little pang every time I see your shoes, cards, or jerseys. Don't worry, though, we'll keep your best stuff around for posterity and old-timers' games.
So where is all this emotion coming from? Maybe I worry that I didn't teach you much -- or that all I did teach you was my own (sometimes) piss-poor example. But I honestly don't care whether you're following my example or reacting against it -- I'm proud of the man you've become.