Swagged out in Nike like his name is Steve Prefontaine. Walking with that strut like he came here to play. Then straight up MURDERING the damn thang. (You know it means real talk because it rhymes.)
This is a father-daughter dance alright, but not your everyday country club ballroom type — these things turn into more of a barn burner when the O’Brien clan shows up.
Love, love, love the older dudes and their unapologetically deliberate movements. Their presence is arguably stronger than the more fluid youth as there is not a wasted movement to it. And pops’ park knowledge is on point. For good reason as well: falling for him is umpteen times worse and potentially more dangerous than it is for the overgrown tyke who just picked up the bucket cap fad.
Must be annoying when park rats hike the rails only to be out-jibbed by Bob O’Brien, three years shy of official, bonafide senior status.
