Brendo Birthday Month officially begins... NOW! I'll give you time to adjust your watches.

You know who knows how to kick off Brendo Birthday Month with a bang? Big Game Dave. Jeepers holy Christmas on a cracker. Another walk-off homerun? I mean, another one? Now there's a man who cares about my birthday month. You could all stand to learn a lot from our boy BGD.

You know who I'm a little jealous of right now? Ten-year olds. When I was ten, we had our own version of Ortiz: Larry Bird. He came through in the clutch with a game-winning three-pointer every single time. I mean, I guess I know intellectually that he didn't hit a game-winner in every game, but that's sure what it felt like at the time. It got to the point where you were surprised when he didn't win the game in the final seconds. Failure was a surprise.

Things would just sort of happen when Bird was on the floor. The game would be rolling along and all of a sudden it was like he willed himself from being a regular old guy from Indiana into Superman. Seriously, it was like he had a superhero switch. I had complete and utter faith that he would come through in the clutch. Larry Bird was my religion. After every game, I'd go out in my driveway and shoot 3-pointers, pretending I was Larry Bird, winning the game for the Celtics in the last second.

Even now, there's still something almost mythic about Bird's presence when I see him. When he was coaching the Pacers, my eyes couldn't help but dart to the bench during the game. Part of me kept expecting him to pull off the suit, under which he'd be wearing old number 33. Then, he'd step on the floor and drain 7 3-pointers in a row to clinch a game 7 victory. After all, anything could happen. That was Larry F'n Bird.

Sadly, it's that sort of faith that you lose when you become an adult. As much as I love Ortiz, I just don't feel that way about him. I can't - I'm an adult now (and according to the always-reliable wikipedia, Ortiz is only about a year older than me). I realize that as great a baseball player as he is, he's just that - a baseball player. As I watch him rake game-winner after game-winner, of course I enjoy it. I cheer for him and feel the "wow" every time he does it again.

But I also think about whether he's juicing. I think about whether they paid too much on his contract and how long he's going to continue to perform on this level. I think about how ugly it's going to be when the lovefest finally ends and he is either sold to another team or leaves for more money in free agency. I think about how the Red Sox organization will use their vicious pitbull media to turn people on their hero, the way they did with Nomar and Pedro.

I can't help thinking about these things. I'm an adult now and I know how the world works. I know that people cheat. I know that great athletes inevitably deteriorate and that really, people value money over all else. Every wonderful, amazing thing that's a joy to witness must end. And it usually doesn't end well. Over the years, I've learned this lesson very well, over and over again. Because I'm an adult.

As my 30th birthday approaches, maybe it's only natural that I feel a twinge of jealousy for all those little boys and girls who haven't learned those lessons yet. They have the privelege of going to sleep tonight dreaming of David Ortiz with a big red cape around his neck.