Childhood Friends
My buddy Tom is celebrating his 50th birthday today.
I can clearly recall the first time I met Tom. He had walked into my parents backyard holding a football.
"Can I play?" he asked.
We were ten years old at the time.
Tom lived four houses up the road. The Popple family was a hop, skip and a jump across the road and they were flanked by the Lauber's and the Nagel's. The Rodlers, the Downes, the Awalds and the Doles were all within walking distance.
There were kids our age everywhere.
And we all played together...
...outside.
Baseball, basketball, football, hockey.
Every single day there was a game going.
In fact, the games were so legendary, in our backyard, that soon there were other kids getting off the bus to come and play.
Usually one or two kids stuck around for dinner, and I never once heard my mother or father complain about feeding any of them. In fact, Dad was like the guard dog at the door. He had to like the friend and the friend had to eat everything on his plate.
My Dad really liked Tom.
Even if he called Tom by a nickname which was a slur related to his polish heritage.
Every time.
And Tom would battle back. There was an epic scene where Tom was laying on the couch, in the spot where my father wanted to sit.
"Get up you poll&*$," Dad said.
"Make me, old man," Tom said.
My father picked him up by a couple of low-hanging things that are usually not handled in a fair fight.
"I'm done! I'm done!" Tom yelled out.
And here we are 40 years later.
My boys bring kids by all the time.
There aren't sporting events in the backyard...they now play them out on a screen.
Last week my boys mentioned that their friend, Quinn, had a surprise for me.
"You're in the NBA," Quinn said as he ate the steak and fries I'd set out for him.
The boys got the controllers and howled through the showing me that Quinn had created a player with my name.
'Clifford Fazzolari' was on the screen - a backup guard for the Washington Wizards who averaged less than 4 points a game.
"Why?" I asked.
They all laughed.
Childhood friends.
They're worth their weight in gold.
Happy Birthday, Tom...I have enough dirt on you to last thirty lifetimes...but man it's been fun.
I hope you have 40 more fun years in ya.
I can clearly recall the first time I met Tom. He had walked into my parents backyard holding a football.
"Can I play?" he asked.
We were ten years old at the time.
Tom lived four houses up the road. The Popple family was a hop, skip and a jump across the road and they were flanked by the Lauber's and the Nagel's. The Rodlers, the Downes, the Awalds and the Doles were all within walking distance.
There were kids our age everywhere.
And we all played together...
...outside.
Baseball, basketball, football, hockey.
Every single day there was a game going.
In fact, the games were so legendary, in our backyard, that soon there were other kids getting off the bus to come and play.
Usually one or two kids stuck around for dinner, and I never once heard my mother or father complain about feeding any of them. In fact, Dad was like the guard dog at the door. He had to like the friend and the friend had to eat everything on his plate.
My Dad really liked Tom.
Even if he called Tom by a nickname which was a slur related to his polish heritage.
Every time.
And Tom would battle back. There was an epic scene where Tom was laying on the couch, in the spot where my father wanted to sit.
"Get up you poll&*$," Dad said.
"Make me, old man," Tom said.
My father picked him up by a couple of low-hanging things that are usually not handled in a fair fight.
"I'm done! I'm done!" Tom yelled out.
And here we are 40 years later.
My boys bring kids by all the time.
There aren't sporting events in the backyard...they now play them out on a screen.
Last week my boys mentioned that their friend, Quinn, had a surprise for me.
"You're in the NBA," Quinn said as he ate the steak and fries I'd set out for him.
The boys got the controllers and howled through the showing me that Quinn had created a player with my name.
'Clifford Fazzolari' was on the screen - a backup guard for the Washington Wizards who averaged less than 4 points a game.
"Why?" I asked.
They all laughed.
Childhood friends.
They're worth their weight in gold.
Happy Birthday, Tom...I have enough dirt on you to last thirty lifetimes...but man it's been fun.
I hope you have 40 more fun years in ya.
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