In late January I went back to the land of my birth, Long Island, New York, to visit a group of people I've known most of my life. I met several of them when I was five years old and by seven or eight I knew them all. We are fifteen strong. One of us died in a tragic accident a few years back. And one or two have drifted off into the ethers of life's complexities. We have an annual dinner. A gathering of The Brethren. This year fourteen of us made it. The big fella, Joe Leone, unfortunately had the flu. Two of us flew in from California and one from London. The rest are within a few hours drive of each other. And many live in the towns we all grew up in. Williston Park. East Williston. Albertson. Mineola. All part of the town of North Hempstead. I've been in California for twenty years. It gets better every time I go back. Somewhere along our path we formed a very strong bond. Maybe it was in The Pit in Albertson. Or maybe it was at The Tressle behind the Willie Park Pool. Our allegiance dates back an amazing 37 years. Man, typing that makes me feel old. But the moment we gather, we are ageless. The initial noticing of grey hair, lack of hair and expanding bellies fades quickly and again we are teenagers laughing at and with each other. Goofing off again. Time fades. It's as if there were no gaps since the last time we back slapped. The beers flowed freely. The stories rolled out loudly. Faults have no place here, except to be laughed about. There is no malice involved. It is a safe haven. I get encouragement from their friendship. While not blood, they are kin.
We gathered at TR's a local bar where from the ages of 19 to 21 we practically paid the mortgage. It was central to us all. Stumble distance. Though like many young fools we drove all the time. I've probably spent more time leaning on that bar or the shelves in the kitchen than the present owner. This relative ownership of the bar held an ease over the evening's events. I felt sorry for the tables of families nearby who I'm sure dreaded the loud group of fourteen men laughing like 20 year olds, no holds barred.
My favorite moment though was the march of eight of us down Broad Street after we met at Johnny O's house for a preliminary brew. John lives close to the Pool and Old Motor Parkway, another famous spot where we spent our teens lurking, drinking, partying, fighting and hooking up with girls. We marched the length of Broad Street like in the days of yore. There were always too many of us to walk on the sidewalk so we marched in the middle of the street. We did on this night also. Every block and nearly every house held a story. We laughed like we used to. We laughed at ourselves and what we were doing; eight men in their early forties strutting down the middle of a street, bent over laughing. But it also struck a chord. I was home.
New rule for next year Tom ... no white sweaters ...
