The first time I saw snow was 15 years and four days ago, almost to the hour. It was November 9, 1998, on what would have been my brother’s 13th birthday. Having at that time recently transplanted to Denver from the Bahamas, I was excited to see the ground covered in tranquility. Everything was still. At that time the Magness Arena was being built, so all the equipment, materials and mounds of dirt hid like little children crouched mischievously, ready to spring out from under a white quilt. What made it even more special was that I had no specific expectation of seeing snow that day. At the end of the day after dinner, we played football on a field by the dorms. In short measure, I had had my brand new, and only, winter coat ripped at the pocket. I eventually had it repaired, and I still have that jacket. Good times.