TRUE JOY, A COMPENDIUM

Who thinks of true joy as the day your parents permitted you to ride your bike to your pals house a couple of streets over?

They trusted you because you demonstrated proficiency on your street.

Now you were one of the big guys.

When you got that first bike you wanted to ride it everywhere.

And ‘everywhere’ was a couple of streets away from Ohio in SW North Bend, Oregon.

Too often people forget the context of true joy.

It comes when you accomplish something once thought impossible.

The approval from people you care about, who care about you, makes it even better.

 

True joy was earning my parents permission to roam the neighborhood, er, go to my pal’s house a few streets over.

It was even sweeter coming back and answering questions from other kids in the neighborhood like I’d escaped and returned.

“How far’d you get?”

I didn’t tell them too much.

“Did Pepper chase you?”

Pepper was the old dog on the corner with the weird bark.

“Can I go?”

No. I was the scout looking at new territory, not a wagon master.

 

My true joy was short lived after I stayed out late, my Dad came looking, and I was grounded.

I might have felt a little too much true joy for the parents’ comfort zone.

“Where is he? He was supposed to be home an hour ago.”

“I’ll go find him.”

After a review for how to tell time, I was out on the world of roads a week later.

 

True Joy With Others

Nothing says true joy like not knowing what it feels like, but you feel something and figure it out later.

Boys with big brothers have one benefit over all other boys: An older brother means older girls come around.

Sometimes the older girls were cheerleaders, the equivalent of movie stars to kids four years younger.

When your brother’s buddy dates the cutest cheerleader on the squad and they show up at your house?

It’s a big deal, like royalty.

He was a big football star, she was a pin-up girl with personality.

If anyone was going to be ‘discovered’ for the movies, it was her.

And there she was, sitting on the couch in the front room with a fire in the fireplace. In my front room with her boyfriend, my brother, and his date.

What was I supposed to do?

 

“We’re in here. What are you doing?”

“Checking on the fire.”

“We’ve got it.”

“It needs more wood.”

“We’ve got plenty of wood. Beat it.”

The cheerleader and I made eye contact is how I remember it. Not, ‘We locked eyes.’

But at the time, we locked eyes.

“I think he’s cute.”

The cutest cheerleader, the cutest prettiest girl in high school, probably cutest girl in the county, thought I was cute.

It’s never too early to start the Pretty Boy resume.

If the crown fits, wear it.

“Girls are going to love him,” she said. “I can tell.”

 

Sports Fan True Joy

I didn’t know it at the time, but my Dad probably thought he was living on borrowed time.

Nothing stood out, nothing unusual, but he seemed a little distant at times.

At his funeral I learned he’d survived three human-wave attacks during the Korean War.

Among other things.

But it was just a mom with father and son up in the stands for a wrestling match in Marshfield High School one March day in 1973.

Down in the pit wrestlers faced off weight by weight.

 

Dad: Shouldn’t you be down there?

Me: No, I’m fine right here. Those guys are really good.

Dad: There will be state champions in each weight.

Me: They look like college wrestlers.

Mom: When is your weight up?

Me: The usual, but aren’t these guys good?

Dad: They are, but what about . . . ?

Me: Whoa, did you see that throw?

 

We were watching the 1973 Greco-Roman State Championships.

I was in the tournament at 190 lbs.

After I lost my first match, I won out.

One of the guys I’d pinned beat the guy I lost to and put him out of the tournament.

I sat with my folks watching what’s called a Round Robin Final where the top three guys in each weight wrestled each other for Gold, Silver, or Bronze.

I’d already beat the top three guys in my weight so all I had to do was put on warm-ups over my clothes and go stand on the podium.

 

Dad: Your weight is coming up. Shouldn’t you be down there?

Me: Those guys are wrestling for second, third, and fourth place.

Dad: What? Then who . . . ?

Me: You’re looking at him, the Oregon Greco-Roman State Champion at 190 lbs for 1973.

 

No one did much hugging back then, especially compared to today where you’ve got to fight-hug your way to the front door.

But I fought-hugged the heck out of both of them up in the grandstands of Marshfield High School. We pushed and and pulled back and forth until we couldn’t stop laughing.

I set my gym bag on the seats, unzipped it and pulled out my wrestling warm-ups, and kicked off my shoes.

I slid into the sweats and tied my wrestling shoes.

 

“I’ll wave from the podium.”