More than anyone,
I was more pleased to see John,
hadn't seen him since graduation.
He was taller than I remembered,
red hair now softened to something less than fiery.
We greeted, shook hands, skipped the usual
joke about the ravages of years,
but did the common verbal dance:
how good it was to see old friends,
what a shame it was the dozen
who had died. Then I said
what had never dared to say --
how much, back then, I had admired him.
I prefaced it with what we both knew
was true: "you were not an athlete."
His nod and smile, mock-shocked,
coaxed me to continue.
"you stuck with it, practice after practice,
sitting on the bench, game after game.
You were loyal, steadfast, true."
He gave a rueful laugh. "Or maybe
just too dumb to quit," he said.
But I could tell it pleased him.
We talked some more, then someone
came to join us. "Thanks for that," he said,
before our time was up.
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