“Chris Sharma is totally cool. Is he the best rock climber in the world?” Graham asks.
“Yeah, I guess,” I tell him. “In the same way Paul Tergat is the best runner or Lance Armstrong is the best cyclist. They’re the best for now.”
“That,” he says, “is totally wicked,” pointing to a cover of Rock and Ice, which appeared in our mailbox as an incentive for me to subscribe.
He jumps up and down and waves his arms, which is what he does when he’s excited. It’s endearing, but it’s a symptom of the same mysterious neurological divergence that’s been causing him trouble in school.
“He’s climbing in the ocean,” I tell him. “That’s Mallorca, where Mom and I went for our honeymoon–we called it a luna de miel because it’s in Spain.”
I pause to admire his smile. He is among the most enthusiastic, caring, and happy-go-lucky people I have ever known, and I wonder how the classroom can cause him such angst and frustration.
“They say this is the hardest climb ever attempted,” I tell him, “and he finished it.”
“Cool,” he exclaims, and he jumps some more. “I want to meet him and get his autograph. He totally rocks.”
I smile at his inadvertent pun, and think to myself, “It’s good to have heroes.”
Mine is standing close enough that I don’t think I’ll need his autograph.