Ten days ago, at around the stroke of midnight, I boarded a plane heading East.
I had no idea who or what waited for me on the other end.
Months and miles separated me from my friends, and there was no telling who would want to see me or when I would see them. I thought I had been gone for way too long. I thought time and distance were the great separators between friends. I thought the trip was going to be a reality check.
I forgot how great my friends are.
Since landing on the crowded runways of JFK in New York City, my UMass connections found me, took me in and took me out. My friends made sure my 10 days away were spent the same as my six years in the Northeast – random, fun and exciting.
I went from New York City to New Jersey for an old rugby teammate’s wedding, which somehow turned into an errant and unorthodox trip to Philadelphia. I reminisced with former ruggers, and I listened to a dozen bagpipes serenade one of my best friends into married life. During the first song, I looked over at another rugby friend, and we both cried: Not because of the wedding … it was something more mysterious than that.
During my travels through New Jersey I saw my handsome godson, my uncle and my grandmother. My grandma made me a BLT, and it tasted just as good as it did when I was a mischievous 5-year-old. Some people never lose their touch.
After a night in Brooklyn I made it up to Boston – just in time to get absolutely slammed by Boston Red Sox traffic. That night I saw my old stomping grounds in Allston, drank with friends in Brighton and told a couple of Boston College kids that they were stinking up the bar.
I guess I haven’t lost my touch either.
The next morning I decided to pack up and leave for Amherst, just for a night, to see another rugby friend that I haven’t seen in almost four years. He’s a man we call Mancandy, and that’s all I have to say about that.
That night we went to Seven Os and sang karaoke. It was a standard night with a good friend. When we walked home we sang rugby songs and cheered for the old days. The shouting was Sunderland’s serenade.
Upon my return to Boston I met with an old friend in the North End, and walked into a bar filled with suits. I was out of place and uncomfortable. Then, another old rugby friend rode his bike from Somerville, and two other friends came out – one from Cambridge and one from New Hampshire – and the night quickly changed gears.
My rugby buddy and I met up with another, and we painted the North End with stories and songs. I threw up in the Boston Harbor – I knew that she missed me.
The rest of my time in Boston was spent with rugby buddies and Collegian friends. However, after introducing everyone to everyone, it was clear that the college categories were no longer needed.
On Saturday morning, it was time for Amherst.
Mike Marzelli and I were awestruck by the tailgating scene out in front of McGuirk. During our time there were no crowds aside from a sparse gathering of alumni drinking beers by their car. This was massive – this was a big time football tailgate. Mike and I stood there for a second and thought the same thing:
“Unbelievable.”
There in front of us was the beauty of our alma mater, painted delicately by fall leaves, Pabst Blue Ribbon and dozens of scattered friends.
That night we saw acquaintances and visited bars that hadn’t seen us in awhile. We saw the Sox come back on the Rays, and we fell asleep in a Puffton apartment filled with 10 drunk sleeping men.
For my last day in the Northeast, I hung out with my best friend from college, and we talked and relaxed over Brooklyn deli food. There was no need to fully reminisce because there are certain friends you don’t need to recap with. You just need to sit over a turkey sandwich and watch a football game.
Yesterday, I fought through New York City traffic and dropped off my rental car. I sat in the airport with the new Lindy’s college basketball magazine and turned right to the Atlantic 10 to see how the publication thought my boys were going to do.
I boarded the plane heading West, and I got a little misty when I thought of everything I was leaving behind again.
Then, somewhere over Nebraska, I had a nostalgia-driven illusion. Below me were the amber waves of grain, shrouded by the darkness of another beautiful American fall night. Yet, my mind’s eye painted the scene the perfect shade of Maroon – the shade that reminds me of my friends, my school and the section of the country where life goes on and the past is seldom forgotten.
I turned away from the window and thought about time and distance and their affect of friendships.
Then I realized I was thinking too much and lowered my UMass hat over my eyes.
(Special thanks to: Jillian Simms, Paige Cram, Stacy Wasserman, Rachel Karlin, Steve Bagley, Ben Myers, Mike Marzelli, Jeff Howe, Jeremy Quitko, Ray McGovern, Paul McGovern, Audrey McGovern, Patrick Ewing Jr., Al Barish, Alie Romano, Lurch, Casey, Philadelphia, Michelle Lacasse, Aaron Millman, Ross Couture, Scotty “Mancandy” Neas, Brian Long, Todd Foster, the Mullins Center, Mike Hershey, Derek Volner, Lawrence Enweze, “Chris Puliafico” … and, as always, Mr. Jordan Quitko.)
Posted by bmcgovern
Posted by bmcgovern
Posted by bmcgovern