ROGER'S GONE

Loss of a friend

It might be stretching it to call Roger a friend. Does it qualify if I haven’t seen him for 50+ years? I’m going to persist in that conceit, though.

Roger and his brother lived on the farm that was directly west. “Louie’s place.” He was two years younger than me, we were pals and then they moved away and I didn’t renew the acquaintance until high school.

He was a freshman, I was a junior, he played defensive end and I was the corner linebacker. The opposition found out early that if they swept that end, they could send three blockers at me…seems Roger, a skinny freshman just flat-ass disappeared! He became an excellent athlete, but that was not his shining hour and I got the tar beat out of me that season.

Move to next season. I was a senior, it was the first date with the girl who became my spouse for nearly 25 years. It had rained for days, the field was sloppy and it was raining hard the whole game. We were ahead by a touchdown, the Silver Creek QB went back to pass on the other side from me, and when he threw it, it kind of squirted up in the air and I intercepted at the 2 yard line. My coach nearly had a stroke as I ran past the bench. I guess my eyes were the size of saucers and I was running as if the demons were after me.

Well, I collapsed in exhaustion in the end zone, it would have been the longest interception return in Nebraska that year, but Roger in his enthusiasm pushed a kid from the back. They said it was 10 yards behind me. I couldn’t see. Hell, at this point, I can tell the story any way I want…nobody remembers and the ones that would remember are either senile or dead.

I remember my future wife when I came out of the locker room and we went to Columbus for a burger. Wet, wet wool sweater (cheerleader stuff) and hair plastered down. I was no prize.

Roger died in October 2016, his wife was kind enough to email me. I had found an address and sent a letter. He was a character, I regret that we never had contact for all those years. Going to his house to listen to the 45-rpm Claude King recording of Wolverton Mountain at highest volume…over and over.

Riding around in the 1938 Ford he got when his grandmother passed. It was ok, except that the front seat, a bench, was not attached. When he accelerated, we flipped back. He kept hold of the steering wheel, brought us back and his foot hit the accelerator and we went back. Laughing and laughing. At the Rodeo Grounds.

I often marvel that I reached maturity the things we did with dangerous stuff.

Well, he’s gone. No more swapping stories. Maybe later.