No way around it, Dylan, you’re number 2.

At least he’ll have plenty of time for poetry and prose whilst sitting on the bench.

For I have dreams that do not sleep with pride.
I hear the crowd though silence cloaks mine ears;
I feel the laces though no ball is mine.
Each practice snap, each film-lit midnight hour,
Builds brick by brick the tower of what I’ll be.
A king is not made king by crown alone,
But by the weight of waiting for the crown.

Then let me bide. Let patience be my coach.
This bench is not a prison, but a forge.
And when my hour arrives, let all men say:
“He did not languish—nay, he sharpen’d there.”
So shall I rise, when destiny gives leave,
Not as a boy who wish’d, but one prepared.

– from Shakespeare’s “The Merchant of Eugene”, probably