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Rudy and me.
When we were free.
In the summer of 1982.
I promise all of this is true.
One lazy and random summer afternoon over the garage in my grandmother’s beach house, my best friend Rudy reclined on a too-short bed in his bedroom. I was in my room, sprawling out in my too-short bed, questioning why I ever asked Rudy to join me for a summer at the beach.
Just two fellas, chillin’, wasting time, being irresponsible and, as it turned out, up to nothing anyone would call laudable, admirable, or appropriate.
We were there for the summer, at Rehoboth Beach, college bad boys, with nothing good on our minds. We were sinning frequently.
That afternoon, we rammed heads in our “go to” life-long argument we’ll continue on our deathbeds, bickering about that 8th grade D.C. championship basketball game when Rudy got scared and choked away our chance to be immortalized. He is to blame, but never owns that because he’s shallow and stubborn.
“Chuck, man, you tried to shoot your way out of a slump and went 4 for 54 from the field.”
The conversation went on like this. We were two frustrated and pent-up 19-year-olds wishing they had won that game, the only one historians may have even considered documenting in the Library of Congress in what was otherwise a spectacular season, probably the greatest collection of 8th-grade hoops talent since James Naismith set up that peach basket in the late 1800s.
In that season that could have been but definitely wasn’t, we went 29 and 4, and Rudy didn’t win any tournament MVP awards.
In sharp contrast, I won four. All of that glory, though, has not been restored for posterity. It’s everyone’s loss.
Suddenly, I heard Rudy say: “Allll Rigggtttt.”
Buck nude, he strutted into the hallway where I could see him. Interestingly, what I saw first was only a part of him, albeit his most treasured part —the part of him he has always cared about most.
Rudy rocked a roundhouse erection.
That day, he showed it off as if it were a Rembrandt oil painting he just created. He really seemed to believe he had accomplished something important.
So while we had been arguing, he had been multitasking.
Rudy and me.
When we were free.
In the summer of 1982.
I promise all of this is true.
Every day that summer, we would lie out on Deauville Beach with our usual beach bums, college kids avoiding reality for as long as we could. One was named Susan. She talked a lot but wore a lot less. Rudy wanted to ask her out but lacked my temerity.
Susan and I went to dinner at the Bummer House. I got a couple of hamburgers with A1 Sauce and a double dose of fries with A1 Sauce. I don’t remember what Susan had.
We left and then
The next day on the beach, I found out Susan had been regaling a meddlesome Rudy with what had happened on our date.
“Chuck, man, she hates you,” he said. “She really hates you.”
Rudy and me.
When we were free.
In the summer of 1982.
I promise all of this is true.
During that summer, six-foot-ten Bert came down to visit Rudy and me. As was our custom, we went out day drinking in Dewey, which, if you’ve never done it, you should. Beers, sunshine, nothing to ponder. Except the next physical pleasure to be explored and fully partaken of with zeal.
On the drive back to Rehoboth from Dewey, we came upon Silver Lake, an exquisite body of water that shouts pristine and delicate. I challenged that I could swim across the lake faster than both of them.
Bert screeched his 1977 Dodge Duster to a halt in the grassy area near the lake, which wasn’t then, and still isn’t, a parking spot. As if we were evacuating a house on fire, we abandoned the car and sprinted into the lake, which no one has ever swum in.
The swim race was on. We got about halfway across when Bert and I noticed Rudy had fallen well behind us. On his face, he wore the broadest and most mischievous smile, accentuated with a slightly scary laugh. Haunts me a little thinking about it now.
Rudy was relieving himself, doing the deuce, in Silver Lake.
And disturbingly proud of his accomplishment. He was having an experience.
Rudy and me.
When we were free.
In the summer of 1982.
I promise all of this is true.
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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