Carlos

Baby in the beanie. Baby in the orange aviators. Baby strapped into a Baby Björn against a desert sunset with birds cutting across the sky. This is Alan Garner's parenting arc in a 6-inch square, and yes, his name is Carlos. Don't ask what he did last night in Vegas. Don't ask where Doug is. Just accept that the Wolfpack has a fourth member now and he throws grip.

Carlos does not slide. Carlos does not drift. Carlos hits the board like Alan hits a Rufie'd cocktail — dead weight, right where he lands, roll credits. That oatmeal herringbone slow side is matte, tight-woven pro-fabric that grabs the plank on contact and refuses to negotiate. Push bags stay pushed. Blockers stay blocking. It's the all-stop bag for people who plan to make their opponent live with every mistake, then post about it on the rooftop the next morning missing a tooth.

Grab a set of Muncher Carlos, strap 'em in, and go be the three best friends that anybody could have. One tiger not included.