David

On March 15th, 1975, David, while you were making your grand entrance into the world, your future paper route money was already burning a hole in your pocket — though you wouldn't know it for eleven more years. The day you arrived in New York was a Saturday, which meant the comic book stands across Queens were getting their fresh shipments, completely unaware that their most devoted future customer had just been born. Your parents were probably already dreaming of that deli counter where your dad would perfect his meat-slicing technique while your mum prepared for a lifetime of register duties and settling every dispute that would ever arise over pastrami thickness.

Gerald Ford was settling into the Oval Office, still getting used to being the president nobody voted for, while across the Atlantic, Harold Wilson was enjoying his second stint as Britain's Prime Minister. The Vietnam War was limping toward its final, messy conclusion — Saigon would fall in just six weeks — and America was in one of those strange post-Watergate, pre-bicentennial moods where everyone was trying to figure out what normal looked like again. In Astoria, life moved to the rhythm of sandwich orders and subway schedules, far from the political chaos but close enough to feel the weight of changing times.

Americans were lining up to see 'The Godfather Part II' in theaters — Coppola's masterpiece was still packing houses months after its December release — while Diana Ross was climbing the charts with 'Theme from Mahogany.' A gallon of gas cost about 57 cents, which seemed outrageous after the oil crisis, and your average New York apartment rent was around $200 a month, though in Queens it was still possible to find something decent for less. The fashion was all about wide lapels and even wider hair, and everyone was trying to decide whether this new thing called 'Saturday Night Live' — which wouldn't debut until October — would actually be funny or just weird.

Snapshot facts are AI-generated and may occasionally contain inaccuracies.

Spring training was wrapping up in Florida, and your beloved Yankees were preparing for another season under manager Bill Virdon, with Thurman Munson behind the plate anchoring what everyone hoped would be a return to glory. March in New York meant the last stubborn patches of snow were finally surrendering to the first warm days, though any seasoned New Yorker knew better than to put away the winter coat just yet. The city was still gritty, still dangerous in places, but pulsing with an energy that made it impossible to live anywhere else — the perfect backdrop for a future college man who would never let anyone forget his Queens deli roots.

And so you began your story in that magical, messy moment when America was catching its breath between decades, when comic books cost a quarter and could transport you to worlds where everything made sense. Your parents had no way of knowing they were raising a future Yankees superfan who would cry genuine tears over a catcher's death, or that their little boy would be the one to break the family's educational ceiling. All they knew was that on this particular Saturday in March, their world had gotten infinitely more interesting, and somewhere in the basement of your future, boxes of carefully preserved comic books were already waiting to tell the tale of a childhood spent turning paper route pennies into four-color dreams.