It's The Sweet Faces That Haunt Me

“Friends will arrive, friends will disappear.” – Bob Dylan

I’m thinking of you today. I have been since your demise. You were my child's friend. You were a welcomed presence in our home. You were a laugh I heard from down the hall. An extra dinner plate at the table. Another bike in the driveway. You were a period of time. And now you're gone. Buried. Beyond. You should be witnessing possibilities. Instead, you saw none. I fear you’ll be forgotten. The dead often times are. 

“Quiet down, damn it!” That was the wisdom I imparted. That was the introduction I made. That was my contribution to the moment. That was the presence I made. Words ignored. Words dead. Wasted, weak words. Teenagers snicker at demands. But not you. You were a sweet-faced boy. You were of a different kind.

At the top of the steps is where I tried to play parent, barking directions into a basement gone dark. A space where teenagers gravitate, congregate, migrate. A space where the confused share secrets, plot schemes, devise theories, escape parents, rearrange pressure, flee expectations, mock pretentiousness, dare time. There, high above all, on the ledge of impatience, I gave instructions with authority I abhor. That’s where I stood upright, tight-lipped, actively aging, irrelevant, a nuisance. That’s where I saw your sweet face. That’s where I saw those sad eyes. I knew you were doomed. You were bound for pain. You were too respectful. Too kind. Too decent. Your face spoke your future.

It’s the sweet faces that haunt me, break me down, tunnel deep, trigger sentimentality into motion. It’s the sweet faces that give me worry, make me anxious, leave me desperate, sap my fight. It’s the sweet faces that drown me. It’s the sweet faces that don’t fight back, won't fight back, can’t fight back, won't survive. It’s the soft eyes that do them in. That give them away. They see but aren’t seen. That know but aren’t understood. I’d seen those eyes before.

I wish you’d escaped that basement before it was too late. I wish you'd realized then that youthful bliss can last. That it only softens you more. It only leaves you farther behind. The world is cold. People are unforgiving. Thoughts are wicked. I wish your eyes had turned cold. I wish you’d learned to fight. I wish you’d lifted your words. I wish you’d stepped forward, not to the side. I wish you’d known independence. Felt the power of survival. I wish your sweet face had grown to become weathered, stained, hardened. But such a face would have betrayed your nature. One that moved me. Deepened my love for my own children. That haunts me years on.  

The Internet, The Bluejays & Coming Home

 “2:20 left. Ashland-Greenwood up 28-23. Second and eight. Wilber gets nothing! Oh my! Oh, my!” Timmy was always like this. Excitable. Amped. Always on. Always replaying the moment, sizing up the one to come, and gathering up witnesses with his voice. Timmy was always about the big moment. Searching for it. Listening to it. Embracing it. Ingesting it. Describing it. And people wanted more. Not because Timmy’s voice is the picture of beauty. Not because it's smooth or golden or a velvety revisor. But because he knows how to use it. He knows humor. He knows insight. He flavors with clichés but peppers with originality. Sitting in my dark living room, occupied by only my increasing interest and tension, I stare into the harsh white light that is my phone’s screen, giving myself over to the Internet radio station I’ve digitally dialed into. I breathe in Timmy’s voice calling this game that boys growing up in the same town Timmy and I did so long ago are playing. Timmy was made for this moment. He could have been a star. Hell, he is to his town. More than most of us become.

“1:18 left. Fourth down and three!” Wilber-Clatonia’s last chance. Our Bluejays are holding their ground for dear life. Digging in. Clamping down. Winner reaches the state quarterfinals. Loser goes home to “could have beens” and “oh so closes.” This is unfamiliar territory for Ashland. So much at stake. Timmy is talking expectations. Talking stress “on the ole’ ticker.” He talking to us, but he’s living the moment with his broadcast partner, Barry, another friend from long ago. Another voice long unheard through my ears. Together, they move easily with their words. Sincerely. Their admiration for one another is genuine and easily detected. They share the past. Memories. Wins. Losses. Tragedies. As the seconds slip away, I’m struggling to decide which I’m enjoying more, the game or the words from these souls I once knew so well. These souls who share a love for their hometown and what sports provides its people.

If Timmy is chocolate, Barry is vanilla. Reserved. Less words. Straight-ahead. Economical. But so pure. Quick to laugh. Quick to shake a hand. Authentic. Humble. Faithful. Father. Stalwart. Respectful. Respected. He’s arguably the best football player this town has seen. Certainly Top 10. But he’d tell you that's crazy, unnecessary, not required. He played in college. He came back home. He coached his school. Lifted it from doldrums to success. I’m listening to this team's success due largely to Barry's good work. And although you wouldn’t know it by listening, he has a fighting interest in this game. His sons are playing. Like Timmy, Barry’s a star in his town. If Timmy is “The Personality,” Barry is the “All-American Boy,” and more towns could use people like him. 

“Wilber lines up in the wishbone,” Timmy earnestly tells us. For an instant, I can’t help but remember the fascination my friends (including Timmy) and I had with the wishbone as kids. In our pickup games in the park. On the Bowman’s side lawn. On the playground’s gravel rocks. I can’t help but recall how that wishbone broke our hearts year after year. That damn wishbone that Barry Switzer swung like a sword, stabbing Nebraskans another death blow. Ruthless. Quick. Lethal. I can’t help but remember running that wishbone in our pickup games, Timmy at quarterback, me in the backfield. Would Wilber deliver the same heartache?

“Incomplete! Incomplete!!” Timmy screams. Wilber’s last ditch pass falls dead in the end zone. The clock is running empty. Realization is settling in. Stress ebbing. Joy abounds. “Blitz! They blitzed!!” Timmy tells us of the Bluejays' counterstrike. “Craven off the edge caused a lot of pressure!” Barry elaborates in a voice threatening to lose its calm for the first time tonight. “Heart medicine.” “Slugfest.” “White-knuckler.” “An amazing thing to watch.” These tidbits from Timmy—so like him to bring the moment the justice it deserves. Barry says the Wilber folks were “as gracious as could be” and the players gave us “a clean game”—just like him to point to the positive. They’re happy together in the afterward, Timmy and Barry. I’m happy listening to them. I’m happy for knowing them back when. I’m happy for their company tonight. I’m happy for the town I come from. I’m happy for those who surrounded me there. I’m happy that I’m still moved when someone from the land I walked makes good. “You get a feeling this team isn’t done,” Timmy says. I get the feeling he’s right.