For Al, and for whoever looks after this page.
A few sentences, or just talk into your phone. Takes about a minute. He reads all of it on his birthday.
Share a New MemoryPlease don't show this to Al. That's the whole point.
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This is where the people who love Al tell him what he means to them. Nobody's waiting for the right moment. Add yours any time.
[ One line lifted from Darren's story goes here. The one that stops you. ]
[ Darren's story goes here, word for word. Everything below is placeholder, only here to show the type and spacing. ]
A man's hands tell you what he actually did with his life. Where he worked. Who he carried. What he built, and what he held together when it was coming apart.
Anything past the first couple of paragraphs sits down here, behind "Keep reading," so the top of the page never turns into a wall of text no matter how long he writes.
Family, the players he coached, the people he fed. Everyone whose life his hands touched.
"This card shows what the optional questions do. Three words, how long they've known him, and one story. Each one is skippable, but every one that gets filled in makes the card look better."
"Memories can come with a photo attached. An old picture of Al nobody's seen in years lands right below their words, printed like a snapshot taped to the card."
"And this one's the special card. A voice memo. Al doesn't just read this memory. He presses play and hears them say it."
"Anyone he coached can add one too. Their name, the years they played, and the thing he said that they still hear in their head."
