Somewhere in between his dissection of Lil Wayne’s rap game and his adoration for america’s pastime, it struck me. The saved by the bell version of myself had more in common with this cool kid from Mesa than I had originally thought. When I was in high school, my energy grew from Cash Money albums and dissing on skaters (skaters were different than skateboarders, skaters were the misguided souls who posed as skateboarders, lacked the balance of the former, and walked around with those gargantuan Etnies or DC’s on their feet, the only sneakers wider than freeway lanes.) I was involved in volleyball, and played basketball on playgrounds religiously.

So when Connor explained his passion for baseball and touted rap as his musical preference, he grew on me, quickly. He’s on the side of shy, contemplative, his features are quiet too with the exception of his icy, baby blue eyes that would make even Paul Newman envious. His pride is invested in an equally shaded automobile. A beautiful mustang that could become someones personal idolatry. But his joy came from the small things, the laughs that his buddy provided, the countless exaggerations that I made about his tan line, he felt comfortable. Cool. This is Cool Hand Connor.


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