I recently visited the home of a friend with a two-week-old baby boy. He was curled up in the corner of the crib, as tiny as a Chihuahua, the kind Paris Hilton carries in her purse. I then noticed signage hanging directly above the crib. It spelled out–in individual burnt-orange solid wooden letters, each at least 18 inches high with tiny footballs imprinted on them—the baby’s first and middle names: MIKE DITKA. ... Read More »
I recently visited the home of a friend with a two-week-old baby boy. He was curled up in the corner of the crib, as tiny as a Chihuahua, the kind Paris Hilton carries in her purse. I then noticed signage hanging directly above the crib. It spelled out–in individual burnt-orange solid wooden letters, each at least 18 inches high with tiny footballs imprinted on them—the baby’s first and middle names: MIKE DITKA.
