The Giant wore a T-shirt that said, Clarion Clothing, Est. 1980. I already felt somewhat small before speaking to the Giant but mustered up my courage and opened my mouth. After all, I’d climbed to the top of the hill beside the playground and now had a treasured one-on-one audience with him. The Giant glared at me, a wordless warning that whatever I had to say better be significant. I pointed at his shirt. “You’d think that they would know the exact year,” I said. The Giant furrowed his brow; I had successfully confused him—I felt proud. “What do you mean?” he said. “You know,” I said, “It is only 1993. 1980 is recent enough that you’d think they wouldn’t have to estimate it, that they’d know for certain.” The creases in the Giant’s face turned from confusion to mirth, to ridicule. He bellowed forth a laugh that shook the very ground upon which I stood. His voice seemed to echo within the great cavern of his mouth, and I could feel the bass notes …