The first time I saw Rockford, I knew. It flashed through my head with just as much certainty as you might think, “Today, I’ll have a cheese sandwich for lunch.” And as much fanfare, too. It didn’t shock me or shake me. It was just there. I saw him striding across the commons, and there it was: “That’s the person I’m going to marry.”
It was, I believe, 1990. We were in the seventh grade. I didn’t speak to him for a full year after that.
With all the casualness I could muster (and I would’ve been roughly 12 years old, so I’m sure it was a convincing display), I asked my friend Amanda if she knew who he was, this feathered-haired vision in the Bo Jackson T-shirt.
“That’s Rockford,” she said. “He’s really into baseball cards.”
He doesn’t feather his hair anymore (a shame, really), and much to his dismay, he no longer has a Bo Jackson T-shirt. And he’s not really into baseball cards anymore. (Baseball itself is another story.)
But I’m just as certain now as I was that day. He’s my guy.
Happy birthday, Rockford. I love you.
Happy Birthday, Rockford!! I miss you guys.
Happy Birthday, Rockford. You’re such a young pup. Enjoy your day!
Awwwww. I didn’t know you guys had started out so young — there are probably a lot of seventh-graders who see someone and think that they’re going to marry him — it’s absolutely precious that you were right. Happy Birthday, Rockford.
What a great post. Happy Birthday to Rockford. Happy everything to you both, all these years later.