"Damn Bates, what a fucking travesty," consoles Stan Redwood from behind the wheel as we cruise by the empty Codrington Park basketball courts on a frigid New Year's night.
"Yeah, first criminal justice sucks, then Buff gets run over by the mail truck, now I break up with Karen and don’t even know why,” I moan into a half empty bottle of Miller High Life as Stan pops in a cassette tape of the new Kansas album.
"You need to come down to Randy-Mac," counsels my high school friend also home for winter break. "Colloquy is going to be a blast."
"Winter ball starts next week," I retort as we drive by the Krauser's parking lot, also empty in the frigid wind, and the violin riffs into Point of No Return. "Baseball's going to bite on a hard basketball court."
Stan had already saved my shy ass back in high school. I was one lonely jock when he plucked me from the neighborhood in his old Mercury just after getting a driver's license during our junior year. His social nature ushered us both to wherever classmates gathered, all places I wouldn't have gone alone. Zab's basement, Chitch's pizzeria, Fog's kitchen up in Piedmont Farms, a party at Ciarfello's, the South Brook Inn - this was our social circuit in the Comet for most weekends during senior year.
Steve Keller had become a similar friend in my first year of college at U of L. After the fall baseball season he'd driven us to the field house to empty our lockers. On the way out, arms loaded with spikes, gloves, and practice uniforms, we'd passed framed photos of players who'd made it to the NFL, among them quarterback Johnny Unitas of the Baltimore Colts, linebacker Doug Buffone of the Chicago Bears, and halfback Howard Stevens of the Baltimore Colts. Beneath the dashing pose of a helmetless Stevens in a Cardinal uniform was a caption stating "First two years at Randolph-Macon College".
"Hey, can you drop off my high school films at the football office?" I blurt with the sudden inspiration of the mildly inebriated.
"Sure, Coach Keller will definitely want you on the Jackets," he exclaims reaching back for another Miller and crunching into the icy underpass before Queens Bridge into South Bound Brook.
"Thanks Stan," I mumble as the beer kicks it up a notch with a numb tongue and fuzzy head. "I just might go if he can come up with some bucks."
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