When I was young and dirt poor, a Chicago writer and Playboy columnist named Asa Baber was unreasonably kind to me. He took me to dinners and introduced me to editors and pumped me full of self-confidence.
He died in 2003.
Yesterday, Asa’s son and my old friend and occasional writing partner Brendan had a baby — actually his wife did all the work — and they named him Asa. Knowing there’s another Asa Baber in the world has made me weepy and very happy.
I cannot wait to tell that kid wildly exaggerated stories about the greatness of his namesake. “I once saw him kill a wild boar with his bare hands!” I will tell tales of the Colonial like an Anglo-Saxon drunk on mead.