Today I drove two hours to watch my son perform in a choir competition. It was his last time performing as an 8th grader, next year he’ll be in high school. The singing was wonderful, their teacher has done a fantastic job, but as I sat there watching my son, who looked like he was standing in front of a firing squad, I noticed the sleeves of the boys in the front row. And as I looked over the whole group, I saw that all their sleeves were the same; these boys, tearing through puberty, their bodies coltish and awkward, all of them had shirts that didn’t fit. And it was that, not their voices as they glided through Run-around Sue, that moved me.