Apparently, I like people.
I went to the Angel-Red Sox game Friday evening with longtime pal, John Burns. Great seats. Violated my pledge to not attend another Angels' game until Artie Moreno sells the team. Those seats were just too good to quibble about. Took solace in the bare-chested fan group shouting "Sell the team!” from the upper decks. I hear you, brothers.
I left my phone in John's car. Another casualty of grief is forgetfulness, I am told (I've been researching. It's a real thing). He spotted it before I could get home and try to contact him by email, detouring 20 miles out of his way at 10 pm to bring it to me. Now that's a friend.
Got up early Saturday morning to watch my runners at a local 5k. It's an annual 4th of July tradition. I stand at the turnaround. This time I brought Sadie. Ran into the Coulstons and the Johnsonbaughs, which was unexpected but wondrous for the coincidence. Their daughters are both seniors.
I've been coaching long enough that once the 5k began and the pack raced past, I was greeted with cries of "Hi, Coach" and "Hi, Dugard and Sadie" as my current runners, former runners, and many good friends waved hello upon reaching the turnaround and beginning the downhill mile to the finish. Tough Guy Mark Burkhardt stopped for a hug and selfie. Fellow Tough Guy Gregg Hemphill took a short break from trying to win his age-group to pull off and say hello. This will cause discussion at our Tough Guy dinner on Monday night, so I need to make it clear Hempy was in front of Mark as they came past. Little things matter. They're my friends.
Then it was off to Hempy's for his annual post-race Waffle and Bacon breakfast. It is epic, a house filled with runners of all ages. The smell of bacon, cinnamon waffles, LMNT, and body sweat. Sadie was right at home, immediately making friends with Amy and Gregg's Labs. Home for an afternoon of catching up on the Tour and Pre meet before heading off to the Astorinos’ (two doors down) for a neighborhood 4th dinner celebration. Wonderful, wonderful people. Home by eight because fireworks spook the dogs.
So when I woke up this morning in a non-thankful mood I had to ask why. If there was one thing of which I was certain as cancer claimed Calene, it is that I am singularly fitted to live a solitary life. I'm an author, a runner, a traveler. Being alone is my jam.
Yet I woke up envious instead of grateful, suffering the hangover of being loved, thinking of a long ago friend who became a teacher and then a principal and has retired with a full pension (not you, Bill Baker. You have much more personality and even moreso, an amazing wife). I was thinking about the certainty with which he can now pass each day. It made me jealous. I have been robbed of certainty. For me, every day is unknown. A walk through a dark forest.
Then I got to thinking that the choices I've made throughout my career were all based on bravery. I've never been one to settle for certainty, so why start now? The unknown is my jam.
That bravery led to these wonderful friendships. Not corporate bonds. Not someone I befriended to climb a ladder. Authentic companions. Every spoken word is genuine. Going forward, I'm going to lean on these friends, as I have the past four years and even more so the last four months. At the top of this tier is my old high school confidant, Chris Noonan. She reads each of these posts almost fifty years after we first met to tell me whether or not I sound like I'm full of shit or am actually writing something with soul.
I'm the last guy that ever though he'd say this, but as I bought dinner tonight, looking down at a black supermarket conveyor belt that held a single man's repast — ribeye, two beers, sunflowers, fresh squeezed grapefruit juice for the morning — I wondered why I wasn't taking Jim Roldan and Rick Martinez up on a 1 pm invitation to a Norway-Brazil watch party. It's a long drive to Costa Mesa but friends have no problem inviting me — or making that journey to me.
Apparently, I need people.