When most people think of March Madness, I assume they think of broken brackets, nail-biting finishes and the Cinderella stories that seem to propel the magic of the tournament each year.
It’s not that I too, don’t think about those things, because I do. But I also think about eating biscuits in a dark room during a time when an accident – and the tournament, brought two old friends together for a brief moment in time.
Perhaps I should back up.
When I was in 5th or 6th grade, I met a kid in school that I became fast friends with. We had a similar sense of humor, probably both felt a little out of place at times, and really enjoyed playing basketball together.
Our friendship spanned from elementary school into junior high, even though we ended up going to different schools once we reached the 7th grade.
Summer days, with my friend, seemed to last one hundred hours. If I close my eyes, I can still see him from a distance, walking down the steep hill that led down, and then up, to our house.
When you’re a latch key kid, I guess there are no rides during the summer. Your feet are your only dependable mode of transportation. And if there’s no one home, it’s a long walk back.
Once my friend would reach my house, we’d journey to the park. Shoot baskets for hours. Come back to the house and perhaps shoot some more in my driveway on the hoop that my father built for me.
3…..2….1…..
Sunset.
Some days, at dusk, and depending on if my family’s plans were loose, he’d stay for dinner.
A fifth seat at the table. A welcome one, at that.
I don’t remember the meals.
But I remember the laughter. He had a hearty laugh and tended to bury his head in your shoulder when the hysterics became too powerful to control.
I think it was my dad that usually brought him to this state.
His dad had left for Florida, many years prior. He never spoke about it, but I knew that it must have been tough.
Those are the best memories I have of my friend.
The dog days of summer. Pickup games. Hysterics at dinner. Simplicity of youth and youthful friendships.
But youthful friendships don’t always last. So, it’s no surprise that my friend and I grew apart as we got older, developed different circles of friends and strayed apart as the distance of separate schools drew us farther from each other.
Until one day.
That one day when a guy came up to me in a locker room my Sophomore year and told me that he was sorry about what happened to my friend.
I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.
He immediately looked apologetic, and quietly - perhaps even gently, relayed to me that my old friend had been run over in a freak accident and was currently hospitalized with a traumatic brain injury.
My eyes began to well up.
But when you’re in high school, you don’t cry. So, you try to remain stoic, hold it in and by all means, don’t let them see you break.
It didn’t work.
A moment of silence was followed by the kid looking at me, and with all sincerity, quietly saying “I’m sorry” as he walked away, clearly cognizant that the delivery of his news perhaps carried more impact than he had anticipated.
Phone calls were made. Primarily by my mom to my friend’s mother.
Details of the accident were shared. Prognosis of the recovery discussed. A trip, to the hospital, made.
I can still see him there, head shaved, staples running down slightly off the middle of his head.
He looked very vulnerable in his hospital bed. I wondered if he’d ever be the same.
When he finally arrived home, it must have been in early March. He wasn’t in much condition to do anything, but his mother said he was up for some company. I can’t remember how it was arranged, but it was decided that perhaps two old friends could spend some time together, while one was on the mend, watching college basketball over at his house.
Afterall, it was March Madness. So that was what we did.
I don’t remember all the details of that March, as a 15 or 16 year old trying to process the unexpected blows that life can deliver.
But I do recall watching games in a dark living room, shaded as to not hurt my friend’s sensitive eyes.
I can see Christian Laettner’s last second turnaround shot that year against Kentucky.
And for some reason, I remember the most delicious biscuits being served, in the darkness, during one of the weekend’s that we spent watching games that March together.
My friend eventually got better, though I believe the accident sent his life on a different trajectory.
And while we never spent time together again like we did that March, I still often recall the nights, so many year ago, spent playing basketball on my driveway and his laugher at family dinners.
And I can still taste, those March biscuits.