REUNION 2000

THE DANCE WITH HANS

Andy McDermott

DAY ONE: WEDNESDAY SEPT. 13.

 

3:00 PM, I arrive at O’Hare sans golf clubs.  How could United screw up a direct flight luggage pick up?  No problem.  Gabes has found Fox and Agosta and the AnnMarieMobile arrives with a 12 pack and a fifth of Jack Daniels (half empty already).  We’re going fishing.

 

5:00 PM, Four beers and a half bottle of JD later: Bait shop somewhere in Kenosha, WI.  We are told that you can fish three poles off of one license.  Fox wants to know if all three of us can use one license.  Gabes is embarrassed by the question so he proceeds to buy up half the bait shop inventory.  Spawn Packs, worms, spoons, Play Dough (yes, Play Dough – Gabes knows what these fish like) - Four nets is hoped to be enough to hold all the action that we’re going to get.  We cruise by the harbor and some guy pulls out a giant Brownie as we watch.  We cruise to the mouth of the river and check out our fishing spots for the next day.  Up stream we see Chinook salmon breaking underneath the water’s surface like German U-boats.  Monsters.  We may have to lift weights tonight to get ready to carry these suckers home tomorrow.

 

SOMETIME THAT NIGHT, Dave has arrived, and we all get treated to Gabes’ daughter who is an absolute miracle on legs.  God sure is kind to us sometimes.  Gabes’ son, Patrick, warns me not to come up the stairs again with my shoes on.  The message is clear: his mom will kick the shit out of me if I do.  I get the feeling he’s been there.  Nice to know I’ve got somebody watching my back here.  Gabes didn’t mention that.  We have a lovely steak dinner (the girlie men in the crowd opt for fish), with about 27 bottles of Merlot. 

 

Gabes’ neighbor drops by, he’s really a lot of fun, trust me, and proceeds to get absolutely whacked, loud, and ingratiatingly obnoxious as we begin to chain-smoke cigars.  F-Bombs establish themselves as the primary means of communication to be used for the week.  We want to be up early to start hauling those salmon out of the river, so we call it an early night after Fox downs two more “last call” bottles of vino.  Big Ben announces the hour and it’s time for bed.  3 hours of sleep is all anybody ever really needs. 

 

 

DAY TWO: THURSDAY, SEPT. 14.

 

5:00 AM. Somehow I am awakened from a strange dream involving Gabes’ mother-in-law still in my memory.  I put my pants on quickly.  The entire crew is emerging from the shadows and Fox isn’t looking too good.  He puts the blame on “all that red meat”, but Gabes and I suspect that the Kendall Jackson may have been strongly involved in putting that shade of green to him.  We hustle to the mouth of the Pike River and nab choice spots.  Hooks are in the water by 6:30.  This is going to be a big catch day.  Gabes, John, and Dave set about their fishing chores like surgeons beginning their incisions – steady, knowledgeable, professional – I try to stay out of everybody’s way, and Fox tries not to puke.  The fresh air will do us all good after last evening’s feast, but the darkening clouds on the western horizon look like a little more freshness than we might have bargained for.

 

9:00 AM. The light rain has turned into something just short of the Perfect Storm.  We’ve seen a total of one fish caught by the dozen or so other fishermen in our vicinity, and none of us have had a nibble.  The rain and cold wind off Lake Michigan (it is a wonderful Lake), have driven Fox to the car.  At least his head is starting to clear.  Fox and Andy are both wondering when the part where the fishermen take a break and go get bacon and eggs comes in.  Gabes, with rain pouring down in his face like water from a garden hose, says we ONLY have about five more hours to fish, so we can’t waste this time.  He’s serious!  Drs. Agosta and Devita are busy with operation fish, but I’m thinking that it’s too rainy for these fish to want to come outdoors.  Only two other fishermen have stayed with us in this downpour, the rest have departed muttering about wind, rain, the depth of the river, the temperature of the lake, the color of their bait…. You name it – no fish here today.  Clearly, we are out of our minds.

 

                    

 

11:00 AM. The storm has subsided, somewhat.  Fox is out of the car.  ONLY three more hours to go and still no fish.  John swears that he had one on the line, but he also swore that a piece of debris was a giant fish yesterday.  We’ve moved from spoons to spawn packs to play dough.  Gabes is pretty sure that the yellow will work.  There have been two more fish caught (by other fishermen, of course), so we’re on a one per every two hour pace.   What happened to all of those U-boats?

 

    

 

 

And then it happens.  Fish start striking in the mouth of the river and giant salmon are getting kicked up on to the shore like Puerto Ricans who have invaded a dance at the local Italian Club.  They’re HUGE!  But none are biting our lines.  I’m thinking of switching to the red Play Dough, but you have to switch your leaders, and that involves knowing how fishing hooks work, and I’m still trying to stay out of the way of the serious fishermen.  I got in the way of one guy when my line crossed his when he was trying to land a fish.  He wasn’t happy.  And then the frenzy is over.  About a half dozen more salmon have been claimed and still we are virgins.

 

1:30 PM., By now, I know that I can really forget all hopes of that breakfast in a nice greasy spoon.  Dave, John, and Fox decide to head up the river to find the main salmon submarine base while Gabes and I continue to cast into the lake.  Now, I’ve gotten really, really, good at casting.  I even had a fish grab my line after one fine cast and break it immediately (at least I think it was a fish, it might have been a passing trawler for as far as I was snapping them off, and for the mighty tug it gave).  I have now faced the realization that I would not catch a fish today.  The sea was angry, my friend.  That’s when Gabes landed the mother of all salmon.  He played it in for a good, solid ten minutes while I waited dutifully with net in hand to land this Moby.  When it was finally near shore and the moment of truth was at hand, one of the veteran fishermen nearby (Gabes’ son, Johnny’s, soccer coach) looked at me with my net, and said, “pick it up by it’s tail”.  Pick it up by it’s tail?  Pick it up by it’s tail?  Is this guy serious?  No bleeping way.  I deferred to his call of this fly ball and watched in amazement (along with Gabes) as he grabbed this monstrous fish with both hands and yanked it straight up out of the surf.  I couldn’t wait to get on the golf course.

               

And that was how we landed the great Salmon Catch of the year 2000 in Kenosha.

 

3:00 P.M. Back to Gabes’ house where Ann Marie plays the perfect hostess again and cooks enough Brats to feed Milwaukee County Stadium.  That’s when she find out that nobody likes Brats.  Of course we eat them anyway. (I think Agosta even chomped a bite out of one).  We get put in charge of watching Marguerite (we only lose her two or three times) while Gabes goes to get ready and three hours later, he is.

 

 

 It’s time to hit the road to Butler to join with the main forces for a full assault on the Casino.

 

SOMETIME AROUND 6:30 PM., Andy and Gabes argue over who will pay for the toll, and the first piece of currency hits the Illinois Toll Road.  It’s only a buck.  Puhleease.

 

7:00 P.M.BUTLER NATIONAL GOLF COURSE, We arrive at Butler and hook up with the golfers just as they are finishing their round.  Moans and groans confirm that the golf course, like the river, was the big winner here today.  Jack Leicht emerges from Butler’s hallowed shadows and I realize that I haven’t seen this big lug in over 25 years.  These reunions are pretty special.  Drinks and hugs all around at Butler (which is a really fine golf club – Royal Mahogany kind of aura to it, no ladies allowed, locker room just off the bar area – a veritable Domer’s paradise of golf).  Pat Kelly does a great job of helping to set the tone for the class act we are beginning to experience, as this Windy City Wonderama continues to unfold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SOMETIME LATER THAT NIGHT, EMPRESS CASINO: The twelve of us are seated at a table like Himself and his pals at the last supper, (photo on file), except that for our server’s sake, we decide to use not just one side, but the entire table, the same way that we prefer our golf courses.  The meal, which Hans has conveniently arranged to be comped for us, is spectacular.  If it weren’t for all of that wine that Willo kept pouring, I would remember what it was that I ate, but it was good.

 

 

 Then the next magical moment arrived: we hit paydirt.  Cyberzahm took over one of the ten-dollar crap tables and Hans and Dave got hotter than whores in a mining camp with the ivory cubes.  Pass line bets, max odds, Come bets, max odds, Hardways, No field eleven, Easy Eights…… you name it, we hit it.  Hans must have made ten straight points.  When all was said and done, I had an extra $350 in my pocket, a drink in my hand, and a song in my heart.  It doesn’t get much better than this. And while we were all enjoying the thrill of victory, Fox was inexplicably losing his shirt.  Mathematicians make lousy gamblers.  Back to the Hotel, check in with your partner – I lost and drew Willo – thirty seconds later, all were asleep.  Except Willo who remained in the bathroom making strange noises that don’t need to be discussed any further.

 

And that was how we spent our first day of the Dance with Hans.

 

 

THE DANCE WITH HANS (cont’d)

FRIDAY

 

Friday morning came quickly, clearly, and briskly, and we all hit the Hampton continental breakfast bar at something easily past the crack of dawn.  The 443rd Air Force fighter squadron mechanics were having their 57th reunion at the same hotel.  Dudes were in their 80’s.  Something for us to look forward to as we enjoyed Cyberzahm 5.  They let their wives attend.  We should consider that when we can’t drive anymore, or we need someone to remind us what pills to take, or let us know where we are.  Come to think of it, some of us could have used that on this trip.

 

The NASCAR guys were there too.  Only they weren’t staying at the hotel, they just came in to glom on to the free continental breakfast.  I thought either group was going to give us cause to worry until Hans shut them all up with his rendition of Jack Nicholson’s “You can’t handle the truth” line from A Few Good Men.  They feared us after that.

 

And it was a few good men that were needed that day at Edgewood Valley Golf Course.  Edgewood is a stunningly classic CC with beautiful landscaping and pleasant, fawning, “nothing too good for you, sir,” wait staff people.  No doubt they were all especially kissing up to their ex-President, Mr. Hansen.  It worked.  We loved it.  And you can get a good hat at a reasonable price there.

 

Perhaps there is nothing so promising, so positive, so full of life’s hopes as the first few minutes when you arrive to play a round of golf.  It’s like the first ten minutes of a new diet.  Yes, this will be the day. Today, I will bring the course to its knees.  Today it will all come together.  Today I will play like Tiger Woods.  Today……. 

 

My pastoral thoughts were rudely interrupted by Gabes:

                “Andy, get in the bleeping car.”

                “No.”

                “Andy, get in the bleeping car, we’re going to the other parking lot.”

                “I don’t want to get in the bleeping car.”

                “Get in the bleeping car.”

               

You see, I had taken the earliest opportunity to climb out of the back seat of Gabes’ week old, brand new car.  It seats one.  I don’t know what kind it is, but it makes Circus Clown cars look like Lincolns or Cadillacs, or Greyhound busses.  Luckily, my back seat partner, Prep, also bolted at first opportunity and with rebellious strength in numbers, we were allowed to walk the distance to the far parking lot and thus untangle our knees from our shoulders.

               

It was a beautiful day for golf, if only slightly breezy.  Crisp air, well-manicured fairways, huge greens, strategically placed bunkers, John in his worm-hunting suit ……

 

The stage was set.  Albert attacked the practice tee like a man on a mission.  Joe Namath stretching his aching knees before SuperBowl III came to mind.  This man was focused.  Shot after shot took flight as he changed irons, grips, stances, flight paths, …. I took four swings.  The fourth almost made contact and I pronounced myself fit and ready to go.  No sense leaving my best game on the practice tee.  But first we had to take care of the last details: The Wagers.  Chicago Board of Option pit traders would have looked like Cub Scouts in with Special Forces troops as the fast paced action soon swirled with offers and counter-offers.  When all was said and done, enough cash was on the line to finance a small third world army or a third party presidential candidate.  Willo dug up the Big Dig slush fund.  It was time to grip and rip.  Ikey started to cheat right from the first tee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I will leave it to others to describe the pitched battle that then ensued, suffice it to say that were it not for a slightly errant sand shot on 18, yours truly would have had his name inscribed on the low net trophy.  But I knew my 35 strokes weren’t enough to compete with these golfing barracudas.  I do have to note however, that the Andy “no gimmee” rule was thoroughly violated by our foursome.  Country Club Paddy Cakes was the offering du jour as Jack and Hans were conceding eighteen footers over hump back swales like traffic cops moving cars for game day traffic.  That’s good, go ahead, take it away, let’s move on, in the leather, ……. The leather what?  Tannery factory line? 

 

Conversations with Dave and the Worm Hunta confirmed that similar proceedings were occurring on the rest of the course.  Yes, a gentleman’s game always.  In our defense, it should be offered that we were attempting to speed up play for the benefit of the threesome behind us.  All was for naught unfortunately, as Albert, Sobo, Willo, and Fox fell steadily behind the speedier Prep, Ikey, and Hans’ friend, Terry.  Next year a penalty should be assessed to the aforementioned foursome for slow play.  This will be their last warning.

 

Following our eighteen spectacular holes (the course was beautiful, and one I’d love to play again), it was time to gather together, eat pizza in the clubhouse, conference with the accounting staffs called in to sort out the wagers, and settle all debts.  I think my team won.  Sobo won the $.02/ yard matchup costing me $17 and change, I forgave Willo the $60 he would have owed me, and Albert paid his $25 without even looking at card vs. card.  “Money won is twice as sweet as money earned.”  Then, back to the Clown Car, back to the hotel, shower, and get ready for the New Comiskey. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

6:00 P.M. THE LIMOS ARRIVE: Nicholas and Billy pulled up in the stretch limo Lincolns at just before six.  Nicholas was a dork who wouldn’t listen to the wiser, older, blacker, Billy about which way was best to beat the traffic through the South Side of Chicago.  Billy just got back from a little Richard look-a-like contest, but he was way cooler than Nicholas was, even if his limo’s tires were bald, so I opted for the ride in the Billy Mobile.  Also accompanying me were Gabes, Prep, Sobo, and Willo.  A Scat game quickly broke out, the cards flying wildly about the back seat until Sobo gave new meaning to the term “shoe” as utilized in a card game.  After explaining the rules to the morons in the crowd for twenty minutes, followed by twenty minutes of their moronic questions, we were ready for Scat Action, the official Cyberzahm card game.  John quickly showed a firm grasp of the strategy needed and proceeded to lose every game he then played for the remainder of the weekend.  Sobo played as though he could see through everyone’s cards.   Hey, that’s right, Sobo brought the cards.  Hmmmm………..

 

 

 

 

Billy took the back streets to the ballpark, pulling up directly in front where we entered the stadium and took our elevator to our skybox. Pat Kelly, who arranged the golf at Butler, had also arranged for us to use his skybox at Comiskey.  (I think that we should offer to make this guy an honorary Cyberzahmbie with full privileges at all reunions.  I could hang with this dude).  We were living large.  There is a large, removable Plexiglas window that we quickly removed on this fine night, a move that we almost deeply regretted a short while later.  Hot Dogs (good dogs with steamed buns), chicken, roast beef and sub sandwiches, beer of course, we had it all.  We eschewed the opportunity to break into the Cordials cabinet not knowing just how generous Mr. Kelly had intended to be and knowing full well that falling out of Kelly’s sky box window would not be cool.  There were ten seats divided into two rows of five right up front in the box with just a small Plexiglas barrier on top of the concrete wall overlooking the box seats and the field below.  Behind these seats was a large sofa with provisions neatly distributed about, and a couple of television sets up high on the walls for added play by play entertainment.  All the way in the back was a hostess serving drinks and whatever else could have been needed.  Our box was just down the first base line, half way between home and first.  Who says Comiskey is not a great venue for watching a game?

 

 

Now for the shot almost felt around the world:

 

Early in the game, Maglio Ordonez is batting and rips a low line drive back off the top of his bat, a ball that immediately establishes a flight path that is just to my left in the front row, just to Fox’s right in the front row, squarely towards the middle of Sobo’s forehead in the front row.  Nano seconds drag by as the small white sphere grows in geometric proportions, closing quickly on its target.  Soon it is a heat-seeking missile screaming at Sobo’s noggin at the speed of light.  I’m bailing to the right, Fox is bailing to the left, and Sobo is paralyzed like a deer in the headlights.  The ball smashes into the Plexiglas guide rail on a trajectory just below Sobo’s nose and explodes in a flash that scares the bejesus out of the entire box before caroming off to the seats below.

 

Jack starts screaming, “why didn’t you bleeping catch it!”  The back row golden glovers all start to chime in as well with advise as to how they would have reached over and grabbed it, Fox and I are relieved to be alive, and Sobo goes to check his underwear.  Damn, these skyboxes are fun.

 

Toronto takes an early lead, but starting pitcher Steve Trachsel is forced out of the game in the fourth inning, insuring that he will not get the win and thus earning $20 for Andy on a previous bet with Gabes stating that Trachsel would have the ‘W’.  $20 per home run is also riding on a Delgado vs. Thomas wager, but neither collects anything for their sponsors.  Even Johnny the Worm Hunta gets gambling fever and bets Andy on a Thomas vs. Ordonez wager.  I know, I was rooting for Thomas in a bet with Gabes, and against Thomas in a bet with John.  So it goes.  It’s the action that matters.  Still, Gabes is now primed to start tossing dead Presidents around.  The first $5 comes after Andy pays off yet another bet for some ridiculous thing and Gabes decides to toss it out to the crowd below.  Not satisfied, Gabes starts tossing Lincolns right and left watching to see who will pick up their new found gains below.  This forms the basis for a crowd watching, psychological study, exercise that will culminate in the great horse shit watch outside the ACC the next day.  As for the game: Frank Thomas gets to the plate with two out and runners on first and third in the ninth, trailing by a run as Billy Koch is throwing consistently in the high nineties.  Koch whacks out Thomas ending the drama, Willo pays Gabes, I pay Fox, and we all decide that we are too tired to do more than head back to the hotel and get ready for an early start on South Bend in the morning.  The final Scat game finish was played out in the hotel lobby and all went to bed nice and early.

 

Did I say head back to the hotel and get ready for South Bend?  Go to bed nice and early?  Well, that doesn’t include the dopes who decide that they need more booze and head over to the bowling alley to get it.  Andy, Gabes (who else), Gary and Prep.  If I’m missing anybody who was there, it might be because of the Jack and water Gabes brought me that night.  Just a splash.

 

The security guard at the hotel who told us about the bowling alley in walking distance seemed to be quite a fan of that attraction.  He knew what he was talking about.  We entered to the sounds of some local rock band at code violation decibels and decided that they could be heard much more enjoyably from outside the lounge near the actual bowling lanes where the crashing of the pins softened their sound.  And we got to watch Haystack Calhoun’s cousin, Doublestack, bowl while showing more crack than the Grand Canyon.  Actually it was a perfect way to end a beautiful day, drinking and chatting with good friends.  It also gave me time to let Willo do his thing in the room so I didn’t have to listen to him again.

 

And that was the end of Friday.

 

 

THE DANCE WITH HANS (cont’d.)

SATURDAY

 

 

Plans for Saturday morning were to meet early and get on the road by 8:00 sharp.  Endurance was becoming a key factor for this marathon as stragglers were still struggling with first coffee at 8:15.  The 443rd squadron was missing a few players at breakfast as well.  The NASCAR boys were still chowing down on the free bagels and doughnuts. 

 

Our numbers had been reduced by one as Prep was off to a Bonspiel tournament in Hibbing, or something of that sort, but otherwise the group remained intact and in good spirits. The “little yellow school bus” was parked in the hotel lot, and it would have made John Madden  proud.  The brand new upholstery is probably still being fumigated to get rid of the cigar smoke odor embedded in the threads, but at least no one defaced the Dawson’s Creek advertisement on the side of the bus.  Our driver, Billy, was a block of a man.  My guess is 450, but clearly he was plus 400.  At least he was when we started the day.  He left 40 pounds of something in the bathroom just before we boarded the bus to come home, but the cigar smoke helped protect the nearby ozone layer, and no one lit any matches for twenty minutes, so all turned out well.

 

 Jerry Fox (no relation to our Fox) and Pat Connelly joined us for the ride to South Bend and we set off for game day with Scat action in motion.  Al decided that 52 and ½ seemed a logical over/under number for the day and a pool scheme quickly emerged at $20 a pop.  Yours truly was buying up all the under action that was for sale.

 

Traffic was heavy but with beer, good friends, cigars, and Scat – who cared?  We finally hit the ACC lot after passing through scenic South Bend (anybody remember the “go ugly early” girl?) at about ten thirty.  Moments of silence were observed as we passed the hallowed sites of Corby’s, Nickies (where Terry lost his religion one long ago Easter Eve), and The Library.  Tailgate amenities were set in place as we pitched camp between the exhaust systems of two similar behemoth buses and we were in business.  No sense taking the pickles out of the bag.  Cookies were awesome.  Jennifer (I forget her last name, but she looked exactly like she did thirty years ago – OK, so we all put on a few pounds) met us at the bus as did Sobo’s daughter and her roomie.  It was nice.  We hit the alumni section of the ACC where the class of ’73 was meeting in full force, and met Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien and some of their girls.  Erin O’Brien’s son, Johnny O’Brien, was there and something very poignant about our whole get together shined through.  We are ND. 

 

Everybody split up to do whatever around campus, each of us having our own magic moments re-lived, however chosen.  Al parked himself in solitary reflection on a bench at the golf course putting green, quietly reliving days gone by and thoughts of youthful days long ago, and wagers at $1 a hole with Johnny O’Brien.  I shot-gunned a six pack and wondered if I could score a few joints out of one of the dorms. 

 

The stadium was packed as football is back at ND and we were then treated to a thriller over favored Purdue and Heismann candidate Drew Brees.  The defense played with intensity once again and Nick Setta booted a 38 yarder at the buzzer to give ND the 23-21 W, the cover on the spread, and most importantly – the under.  A walk off winner as climax to this reunion get together was storybook stuff.  The rest of this tale is denouement (I bet Preppy $5 I could work that word into this write-up). 

 

Back to the bus, sandwiches, cookies, pickles and beer.  Basking in the glow of victory.  What could be better than this?  How about a gambling event that involved watching for people about to step in horsehit?

   

As we waited for traffic to clear out, a patrol horse clopped noisily by and dropped some steaming horseshit onto the nearby pavement as pedestrian traffic moved busily about after the game.  I think it must have been Gabes, but somebody suggested that we wager on which of the unsuspecting crowd would be first to step in the shit.  Sure enough, some sandal-footed fool FINALLY hit pay dirt after several close calls were met with hilarious whoops and hollers from our frenzied group.  We are easily amused.  We are ND.

 

Back on the bus, Billy was apologizing for clearing out his innards and we were on our way again with beer, Scat, and yours truly collecting betting slips on the under action.  Our numbers had grown shorter by two, as Dave and Jack had departed for their homelands, each set off with wishes for a safe journey until we meet again, Dave with a couple of pounds of Salmon meat in his cooler. 

 

 

Back in Western Springs, the Hansen family was getting ready for the steak barbecue, but I’m not sure that anybody could have been ready for the neighborhood invasion that showed up there.  The marathon runners were now nearing the wall, and only alcohol – lots of it – would carry us further.  We did our best to stay sharp.  I hope the walls and floors of the Rugely Road residence were relatively thick.  The conversation grew……. Manly.

 

Yet another Scat game played out in the darkening evening, just as steaks were done.  Ikey said Grace before our meal, reciting parts of both Old and New Testament books, the Koran, and some of the more familiar Encyclicals of Pope Pious XII.  It was an apostolic event and a sign that the spirit was moving within him.  Or maybe it was the spirits.  Either way, he would soon give new meaning to the term, Ex Cathedra.

 

Hans has a great basement room with an air hockey table, pin ball machine (Mags: you coulda been a contenda), and a great old jukebox.  Add one large size poker table, Scat players, and booze – instant party.  I know Gabes finished off a bottle of Jack Daniels before I got to my second drink, and Ikey and Al hit the Scotch pretty good, while Willo and Fox were pounding beers.  Sobo was keeping pace, and John was just in awe of all at about that time, shaking his head at the way this lifestyle sure wasn’t anything he’d seen in Oregon recently.  Hans was trying to keep us all from burning down the house.  Then it was time to get back to our hotel where, certainly, one last call in the William Tell Lounge was in order.

 

Our great fortune continued, as not one, but two wedding parties were hitting the lounge at the same time as us.  Willo and Ikey immediately named themselves acting ambassadors of love while the rest of us just sat back to enjoy final cigars and the show. 

 

Somewhere between Rugely Road and the Hampton, aliens had stolen the majority of Ikey’s brain.  One more double scotch at the Tell, and the theft was complete.  Willo wanted “First Night” rights with whichever bride he could persuade with boasts to show her the really big dig tunnel master.  They both circled the arena steadily, dropping in on unsuspecting prey quickly and often.  It was during a brief lull in the action that Ikey, seated momentarily across from Gabes, Sobo, and myself, perfected an Olympic-like stop, drop, and roll – bounced up and back into his chair like a boxer in knockdown denial – and took yet another sip of his drink.  I looked at Sobo and told him not to lose sight of his wingman for the rest of the night.  Ikey stared at the ceiling for a while.  Somehow the night came to a close (I think they stopped serving booze), and we headed across the parking lot towards our hotel.  Ikey, struggling like an Ironman triathelete finishing with a whole lot of nothing, still swinging, was pushed on by his number one fan, Willo, who kept shouting his encouragement to the cheers of the crowd as the night ended in a dead heat for all.  

 

Sunday morning was all wrap-up, as we all departed for the safe comfort of our homes, weary yet warm and strongly content with yet another set of great memories.  Fox has said it elsewhere, life sure is funny how sometimes little things matter and large things don’t.  A letter in the mail announces Zahm Hall as your residence and the next thing that you know, it’s more than 25 years later and you’ve still got lifelong friends.  Of this I’m sure: Our lives have all been better for having known each other.  Better than they otherwise would have been.  Great to see you all, hope to see you all again. 

 

Peace, brothers.

 

Andy