Within five minutes of meeting him, Logan gave my dad a good-natured reprimand for raising me to “hate” hockey, and Dad brings that up again once we’re seated at the glass table on the deck. “Here’s the thing, John,” he says as he cuts into his T-bone. “Gracie is smart enough to recognize the shockingly inferior level of skill that hockey demonstrates.” His eyes twinkle playfully. Logan mock gasps. “How dare you, sir.” “Face it, kid. Football requires a whole other level of athleticism.”
