A few years ago, when I was hitchhiking through Laramie, Wyoming, I met an old and infertile man named John. I told him, “I think I’d have made a good son, John. But I’d have made an even better Johnson.” He nodded as he took a long drag from his cigarette before he said, “I think I would have made a good Robert Derrick. But I'd have made an even better Derrick Robert.” I was silent for a few minutes, because I knew all too well what he meant. I’ve often felt I’d have made a great Bruce Robert, and an even better Robert the Bruce than Robert the Bruce ever was. Because, as many people have told me, “You can take all the Bruces in the world, including Mr. Willis, and you’d be the only one who could simply be called ‘The Bruce.’” But you couldn’t call me “The Boss,” because that title belongs to another Bruce.