I checked on my oldest son after he went to bed last night, and he asked me to tell him a story.

I can do that, I figured. I mean, how hard can a quick adventure starring my 8-year-old take? So I began with the old standard ‘Once upon a time,’ but realized this story-telling business just isn’t what it used to be. Here’s the conversation:

Me: Once upon a time, there was a boy named Griffin. And he was a…

Him: A football player!

Me: Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay, a football player. And he played for the Indianapolis Colts.

Him: No, how bout Notre Dame?

Me: Alrighty then, he played for the Irish. And the crowd called him Speed, because he ran so fast.

Him: Noooo, they called me Lightning. How bout that for my nickname?

Me: Lightning it is. And Griffin was Number 9.

Him: Mom?

Me: Yeah, buddy?

Him: Could I be number 14, instead?

Me: Sure, Griffin wore the number 14 on his jersey. And he ran onto the field to the cheers of the crowd…

Him: Yeah, but how bout…I ran out onto the field through one of those giant inflatable tunnels…

Me: Ok…you ran through a giant, inflatable tunnel…and Griffin won the game for the Irish. The End.

Him: Hey, you never told the story!

No, but he did.

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