Nice Shot....Asshole

Sixty-six years. That’s how long I’ve known Bear and Weasel. Although I don’t remember who started calling Gregg Bear or Den Weasel, their nicknames came easily. Bear was a big kid and remained big until he had gastric surgery. Weasel was a skinny kid and pretty much stayed that way until middle age started putting more weight on his frame. I was Moe. I think it was my swimming coach who started calling me that because he couldn’t pronounce my last name. Sixty-six years. It started in kindergarten at St. Stanislaus Bishop and Martyr parish school. We were in the same classroom. We played school yard games. We played touch football and baseball. We did guy stuff. All through nine years of elementary school. We started playing golf at Hansen Park. It was not a golf course. We hit golf balls from baseball diamond to baseball diamond. Some of our holes were longer than any on the current PGA tour. Weasel had a nasty curve. Bear could hit the long ball. I could go get them in the field. We were a good team. Weasel usually found it easy to get along with the “in” crowd. Yes, there was an “in” crowd in elementary school. There’s always an “in” crowd. Bear and me, not so much. The three of us, though? We were our own in crowd. The three of us lived south of the parish church. That “In” group pretty much lived on the north side of the parish, on the other side of Fullerton Avenue. Our group consisted of other southsiders. It was us three, two Bobs and a Larry. We all had nicknames in one fashion or another. The two Bobs were a little older than us. Nine total years of guy stuff, getting interested in girls, learning who our friends were and weren’t. Sixty-six years. Weasel and I went to the Catholic high school in the neighborhood. Bear went to the public school. We were all still within walking distance of our schools and each other. We did high school things, teased each other. Grew up toward manhood and our lives. And though there were moments of separation, the times together were always one of camaraderie and bonding. The games of childhood passed. Occasional touch football games diminished. Card games became less frequent. Golf was still our touchstone. It was where we could root for each other to do well, but not really. It was where we could say, “Nice shot” and truly mean it. Then after a slight pause add, “Asshole” with all the brotherly love that we could muster. It truly was a love we had for each other. Never once did any of us react with any anger toward each other. Sixty-six years We started to become the men we were going to be. We started going our separate ways, our separate paths in life. Different colleges, different careers, different philosophies or work and life, but always when we’d meet up, we’d slip into old habits and routines. It wasn’t recapturing youth. It was just who we were when we were together. On the golf course, it was always, “Nice shot,” a pause, “Asshole.” Weasel was the first to marry. Bear and I drank that night. I was the next to marry. Bear was my best man and arranged a tour of several strip joints. Bear was the last to marry. His bachelor party consisted of watching porn and getting drunk. The story of a 3:00 a.m. run to White Castle is a harrowing adventure that is saved for retelling another time. Bear lost his wife. I lost mine. We both cried. Weasel’s wife is still with us. Our lives were separate for sure. But we stayed in touch. We’d get together for cards, or breakfast, and call each other on birthdays. Send Christmas cards and emails, sometimes serious, sometimes joking, sometimes a bit risque. And golf. Always golf. And always the same, “Nice shot,” a pause, “Asshole.” Sixty-six years is a long damn time. Since those days we met in kindergarten we’ve seen twelve Presidents. We’ve seen war, recessions, and people land on the Moon. And we knew this day would come, the day when one of us would die. We didn’t know which of us would be the first or how. Bear was the one. We’d been friends, drinking buddies, and golf partners longer than most marriages. I have good memories. I hope he did, too. 

Music brings solace.

So long, Bear.

Nice Shot... I'll say the rest next time I see you