Volume 4, Issue 4: Dylan Carlson

"You can see this kid absorbing a little bit more every day."

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In January 2012, I flew to Miami to work on a cover story for GQ about Derrick Rose. The piece turned out terrific, one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever done, one that isn’t diminished, I don’t think, by the fact that Rose’s career (and life) took on a decidedly different trajectory after it was published. I remember talking to him in his penthouse in Chicago’s Trump building, the penthouse on the very top floor, the most incredible apartment I’ve ever been in, and being struck by how truly lonely he seemed to be. I’ve never quite thought of athletes and celebrities quite the same since. There’s a level of fame that I wouldn’t wish upon anyone, and I think Rose was at that level in 2012. I cannot imagine how isolating it would be. That isolation ended up being the whole thrust of the piece. A decade later, I’m still very happy with it.

But I didn’t know any of that back in January 2012. In January 2012, I was just meeting Rose for the first time, introducing myself before a game against the Heat so he’d be comfortable with me for the several hours of interviews we’d be doing in a couple of weeks in Chicago. More to the point, though, this trip in January 2012 was the first time I’d traveled since I became a father.

My son William was born on November 21, 2011, and, like any parent would, I have almost zero memory of the first two months after that day. Just a blur of feedings in the middle of the night, random screams and cries, an never-ending series of diaper changes (and being baffled by how many different colors baby shit could be), occasional visitors to the apartment to meet the baby that I would forget happened 10 minutes after they left. Mostly, it was the constant haze of confusion and sleep deprivation that was interrupted only by the paralyzing terror of a tiny human being suddenly living in our house that we, suddenly and overpoweringly, loved more than anyone had ever loved anything and that we were wholly responsible for keeping alive despite having no actual clue how to do so. My wife and I were in our Cobble Hill apartment with baby William for the first two months of his life and left only to get groceries and occasionally take one lap around the block before sprinting back upstairs. New parenthood is a sensory deprivation chamber that sometimes pees on you.

Then, in January, for the first time, I left. I left to go to Miami, for three days. The first day I got there, I met Rose before his game, watched him drop 34 points in a loss to LeBron James (who scored 35) and the Heat and then went to my hotel room, shut off all the lights and slept for 13 hours. I spent the next two days doing interviews, most of which never made it into the story, and then flew back home. It was a short trip. It was only three days.

Three days isn’t very long when you’re an adult. But three days in the life of an infant is forever. When I returned to Brooklyn, I immediately rushed to William’s crib to hold him. And when I picked him up …. he started giggling. I had never seen him do that before.

“When did he start doing that?” I asked my wife.

“Just yesterday,” she said. “Miss a day, miss a lot.”

And it was true. In those three days, he had gotten bigger, he had started playing with a new toy, his feet had somehow become a different color and he was giggling. Three days, when a baby is only two months old, is an extremely long time—legitimately a huge percentage of their life. When I left for Miami, William was one person. When I returned, he was a different one. It happens so fast. Then, and now.

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I’ve been traveling a lot lately, and I’ve found myself grateful to do so. I am not a homebody, never have been: Some people have embraced the ability the pandemic provided them not to leave their homes any more than is absolutely necessary, but I find staying indoors, not being able to go anywhere, stifling, constrictive, suffocating. I need to go places, I need to see people, I need to experience things. I love coming back to my office afterward and writing about all the things I saw out there in the world, but I’m always eager to get out there back again when I’m finished. It appears we’ve reached what sure feels like a final stage of this pandemic, when we’ve made it through Omicron and everyone who’s going to get vaccinated is fully vaccinated, when the masks are coming off in schools and people are all gathering without much guilt or fear, probably from now on, moving forward. It’s all opened up, and there’s work to be done. I’ve been to Illinois, Indiana, New York, New Jersey, Florida, California, Nevada and South Carolina already this year. I’m in Savannah at the Savannah Book Festival all this weekend, I’m in NYC next week, I’m out there. It’s good. I work in a profession that requires travel, and I do not mind. I spent the first 18 years of my life barely leaving my small hometown. I want to see as much of the world as I can.

But there is a cost.

This week, I returned from Los Angeles, where I was for a week for the Super Bowl. I got in late, and the children were asleep when I came home. I woke up the next morning to both of them jumping on my head, Dad’s home, Dad’s home, yay! I was happy they were so excited to see me, but I have no illusions. It won’t be much longer now until they don’t care when I come home from a trip, until they have so much going on in their lives that they don’t even notice. I will savor that they miss me while they still miss me.

So much is happening, so fast. I was making them breakfast that morning when William, now 10 years old and walking home from school by himself and calling people “bro,” came shambling into the kitchen. He is at the age where he is all arms and legs and feet, his body yearning and stretching in all directions like it wants to see everything and be everywhere, all once. When he wears a baggy sweatshirt, which is all he likes to wear anymore, he is indistinguishable from a college student. He was, in every way, growing: Not a baby, not a boy, but a person, with his own personality and thoughts and fears and desires and worries and all that comes with being a real, life human being. I look at him and see someone who is a little bit more himself, and a little bit less ours, every day.

And he just gets bigger and bigger. I had always been told that boys would reach the age that their feet would grow so fast that you’d have to buy them a new pair every six months. This is now happening so quickly that he’ll discard a new pair of shoes before I even knew he had them in the first place. How big are his feet getting? Look at this:

Those are his shoes. But those are my wife’s feet wearing them. My wife is not a tall person. But still. He’s 10 years old, and an adult woman fits comfortably in his shoes. In six months, maybe he’ll be able to wear mine.

And this will of course accelerate. He is ever-changing, and having more memories that don’t involve me, and meeting more people who don’t have anything to do with me. Soon—if not already—I will just be the lame old guy who gets on his case all the time, and doesn’t let him do anything, and doesn’t understand who he really is. I’ll just be his dumb dad. Then his brother will do the same thing. They will not jump on my head to wake me up after a trip. They will probably be happy I’m gone—one less parent to hoodwink so they can host that party.

I know this going to happen—I have always known. But I still cannot wrap my mind around that it is upon me so quickly. They are becoming their own people, and I am so happy for them: I cannot wait for the rest of you, the rest of the world, to see how incredible they are. But they are also getting a little bit farther away from me, every day. They are different people today than they were yesterday. They are forever changing. Every day I am not with them, I miss a little bit more of it. Until one day I don’t get to see any of it all.

I will be home from the book festival I’m currently at on Sunday. I am going to grab them and squeeze them and hold them as close to me as I can. They’re going to hate it. I do not care.

Here is a numerical breakdown of all the things I wrote this week, in order of what I believe to be their quality.

1. Steven Soderbergh Movies, Ranked and Updated, Vulture. This one is an updated one, with Kimi, but this is one of my favorite ones of these.

2. The Rams Went All-In on the Present, GQ Magazine. I wrote two pieces on deadline from SoFi Stadium on Sunday night. Here was the first one.

3. Mark Wahlberg Buddies, Ranked, Vulture. This was a fun little Vulture noodle.

4. Los Angeles, and Not Just the Rams, Won the Super Bowl, New York. And here was the second one.

5. How Los Angeles Learned to Love the Rams Again, Los Angeles Magazine. I know I mentioned this last week, but now I have the actual piece linked itself.

6. Places I’ll Still Wear a Mask When This Is All Over, Medium. Planes, no question.

7. The Best Eleven Cities to Host Super Bowls, Medium. That Las Vegas one in a couple of years should be interesting.

8. Player of the Week History: Randy Milligan, MLB.com. This one got my Orioles peeps excited. Also it would be really awesome if baseball would come back.

9. You Should Root for the Bengals in the Super Bowl, NBC News. Sorry about this one.

10. Your Friday Five, Medium. Deep breath, relax, the week is over.

PODCASTS

Grierson & Leitch, our first in-person show in 4 1/2 years. TOO LONG. We discussed Kimi, Death on the Nile, Marry Me and Testament. You can actually hear me start to get a little choked up talking about that last one.

The Long Game With LZ and Leitch, speaking of in-person shows, there’s me and LZ on Radio Row at the Super Bowl. This week we discussed that very Super Bowl, as well as the NBA Eastern Conference and baseball’s inability to get out of its own way.

Waitin' Since Last Saturday, look, pictures with all my podcast buddies. We did a show this week to catch up on everything we’ve been missing.

LONG STORY YOU SHOULD READ THIS MORNING … OF THE WEEK

“An Oral History of the ‘Mamma Mia’ Here We Go Again” Ending, Rachel Handler, Vulture. With this and Melissa Maerz’s wonderful book “Alright, Alright, Alright: An Oral History of Richard Linklater’s Dazed and Confused,” this, my friends, is finally the golden age of the oral history. What a fun piece this is.

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Will Leitch
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CURRENTLY LISTENING TO

“Not,” Big Thief. I am obsessed with Big Thief’s new album, but, really, I’m obsessed with the whole band: I’m one of those idiots who just discovered them and now have been listening to them on repeat for about a fortnight. I couldn’t decide which song to pick—”Animals,” “Paul,” “Real Love,” “Mythological Beauty,” “Spud Infinity,” “Simulation Swarm,” so many songs that are going to end up on the newsletter playlist at some point—but when in doubt, go with the great song that Obama had on his playlist. I have officially reached the age where Obama is discovering bands before I am. Still, though: Holy crap, they are amazing.

Remember to listen to The Official Will Leitch Newsletter Spotify Playlist, featuring every song ever mentioned in this section.

May you show your loved ones the focus and attention that my parents’ dog pays the Puppy Bowl.

Also, look at the fun we’re having with the Edgar Awards.

Mystery Writers of America @EdgarAwards

This video from @williamfleitch, nominated in Best Novel for How Lucky (@HarperCollins) has two of the cutest co-stars our videos have had to date. #Edgars2022

Have a great weekend, all.

Best,
Will