Simon

One of my best friends from the old days, Simon, is home for a little while. After graduation, he moved to Texas to attend Texas A&M. That didn't pan out for him, but he remained down there and eventually became a police officer and eventually a sheriff. Later he married and moved to Washington state.

I bet I haven't seen Simon in six or seven years. He left a message that he had his sons up with him and he couldn't wait to see Kenzie.

Oh, the stories we have amassed over the years. I first recall meeting Simon at the Red Lake Falls fair. We bought a puppy there and I recall this rather boisterous kid asking me about him. Turns out he was Simon. The next year when we entered kindergarten, we would forge a friendship that would last the next 14 years.

To say that Simon was a character is an understatement. Let me give you a snippet of the highlights.

In third grade Simon and I were having a heated argument. Not sure over what, but we soon began insulting each other.

"You're ugly," I said.

"Oh yeah," Simon said, "well, you're fat."

This was a revelation to me. I scoffed at this suggestion. However, when I looked down - and I remember this vividly for I was wearing my blue button up Cub Scout uniform with the yellow bandana style tie - I saw the tie flowing out from my chest. But I couldn't see my feet.

My God. I was fat! (I had broken an ankle prior to first grade and spent half of the summer pretty much inactive - and gobbling up Mom's cookies and pretty much anything else I could get my increasingly grubby and pudgy fingers on). Suddenly, it all made sense. Mom and Granny always used adjectives like "stocky" or "husky" to refer to my girth.

But Simon lifted the veil on their rhetoric and exposed it for what it was: a kid with a 32 in waste as a third grader (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit there).

The next time we went shopping at JC Penney, my suspicions were confirmed, for as Mom took me over to the "husky" boys' section for jeans, I actually paid attention to my fellow "huskies."

They were all like me. Just a bunch of porkers with their Moms buying them jeans that could fit many types of livestock!

Simon was right. And that hurt more than anything else!

Another favorite Simon memory came from 10th grade when he accidentally wore his mom's jeans to school.

We had our locker bay downstairs next to the cafeteria. Harry (another of my best friends from high school) and I were at our lockers. Simon stated that he thought he must be losing weight since the jeans he had on were loose.

Neither Harry nor I thought much of this.

It wasn't until after English, when again we were at our lockers, that Lisa exclaimed, "Oh my God! Simon has Chic jeans on!"

We weren't sure what this meant, but Harry and I quickly wrestled Simon to the floor before he could make a break for it. As we pinned him to the ground - with help from the growing thong who rushed to see what was going on - Lisa pointed out the "C" (for "Chic") sewn into one of the back pockets.

Well, that was it!

Soon a runner (another of my best friends, Lon) was dispatched to notify everyone while we continued to hold Simon down. The yearbook staff was notified as well.

He will never live that one down.


Another great moment came from our senior year of American Legion baseball. We were one game away from clinching the division title and a trip to play in Dilworth with a change to go to state. We were just coming off an incredible - and ludicrous - 22-20 win over Fertile (after being down 19-0 in the first inning. True story).

Harry was on the mound and throwing well. However, the young ump had a strike zone that boardered on invisible. Harry threw a fast ball perfectly nailing the bottom outside corner of the plate.

"Ball," the ump called.

I could see our coach from the dug out look on in surprise.

I set up further inside this time.

Harry drilled it. I didn't even need to move my mitt.

"Ball," the ump called.

"Kurt," Doug, our coach, called, "was that low?"

I could only shake my head. I had seen that same pitch in that same location called a strike a thousand times over the past five years.

I set up higher this time. Harry nailed the outside edge - a perfect pitch.

"Strike," the ump called - but only because the batter had whiffed at it.

I set up on the corner again.

Again Harry hit it perfectly. I just turned my glove ever so slightly inside to frame the spot perfectly for the ump.

"Ball!"

"Kurt," Simon called from third base, "How did that one miss?" Of course, Simon was speaking what was on everyone's mind, including our mothers, who were seated about 25 feet behind me and who were letting their displeasure be known quite clearly.

I didn't know what to say, so I just looked at Simon and called, "It didn't. That was a strike."

"Watch it, catcher," the ump growled. "Another comment like that and you're out of the game."

Having been kicked out of a football game my junior year and a baseball game earlier in the season, I had no desire to go for the threepeat.

Enough of this, I thought, and set up on the inside of the plate this time.

But Harry drilled the outside bottom corner again.

"Ball!" The ump barked.

I remember a blurr to my left.

Simon threw down his glove and shouted, "You suck!"

He, of course, was promptly ejected. But he was speaking what was on all of our minds.

Of course, several other players were mad because they were just about to pull similar antics.

We lost the game by a couple of runs, but we beat them the following night and won the tournament.

I could go on for days. But that's all in the past.