Hiding in The Weeds
When New Year's Day announced itself (with tropical air that teased me to that first tee! What's up with that!) I knew the emotions might start to roil my insides like the tides do when a Nor'easter begins its charge. I also knew that even though I don't pay as much attention to the local or national sports scene like I used to (and if any of you need a local primer of what's going on in Philly sports scene, allow me to introduce you to my mother), I might start with watching a basketball game or two, and say to myself or even out loud..."For the love of Wayne Emme, will you pass the freaking ball!" (Ah, we kid because we love!) And that thought would no doubt be aimed at many teammates/friends who have no idea how much they mean to me. Which brings me to my, well, friend is not strong enough a word...Jack Pepper, whose birthday coincides with this, I hope, loving essay.
Earlier today, on Facebook, I saw a love/homage/tribute to my dear friend, Pep...that would be Jack Albert Pepper, Jr...for those of you in need of Delaware Valley basketball education. It was written by his wife, my dear friend, the lovely and wonderful Cheryl Pepper. And while I don't want to impose upon her eloquent thoughts and feelings...I would just like to add a few things that I might not have been mature enough to share the first time around.
Earlier today, on Facebook, I saw a love/homage/tribute to my dear friend, Pep...that would be Jack Albert Pepper, Jr...for those of you in need of Delaware Valley basketball education. It was written by his wife, my dear friend, the lovely and wonderful Cheryl Pepper. And while I don't want to impose upon her eloquent thoughts and feelings...I would just like to add a few things that I might not have been mature enough to share the first time around.
The genesis of this late-night homage, and trust me, the irony is not lost as I write in this late hour that Jack used to keep me up and debate as we argued about the dumbest things under the heavens...(I still contend that the band Chicago is galactically better than some dopey group Pep made up called, Alabama!! Really!?...Anyway...) while playing ping-pong as my parents tried to sleep, not 10 yards away in the other room (and are they the greatest parents, or what?). The fact that I'm embarrassed and angry at myself for letting so much time go by without even mentioning my friend in anything that I've written since his death is a dark spot upon my soul. Now, some of you might give me a pass..."Oh, Pete, time moves on;" or "Peter, how can you be expected to remember everything"; and...oh, screw it. Just like the excuses Jack and I used to give the sainted Coach Cochrane, or the various teachers we begged to let us out of class so we could go to the gym and shoot 500 free-throws..the excuses just won't hold up. Pep deserves more from me, and I need to be better.
Well, this is it. Not all, but some of what I try to do now, is because of Pep. That friendship, that common sense, (I mean, for the love of Terry Bradshaw I can hear him now, "Hall, you're one of the smartest guys I know, but you don't have the common sense that God gave your dog!" For those of you that might not remember, that would be Cinder, the Willowood WonderDog). Welcome to my high school life!
None of this is enough, (and it is not meant to usurp Cher's homage), just like it wasn't enough when he died. And to be fair, I can't imagine writing something that fills the void in my heart for my friend Rick Block, as well (another friend and teammate)...who is missed every day by his family, friends, and me. And that's something I need to address.
What it does mean, for me anyway, is that these emotions, feelings, whatever...are like shapes hiding in the weeds. They're important...and they need to be faced...if not for our fallen brothers and sisters...but for us. We'll talk about that later. I love you guys.
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