It's My Number

It's My Number

 

I am talking, by phone, with old friend from high school. We're both septuagenarians (that's Seven-Oh plus), so high school is what we'd call "way back."

I want to send him an email so I ask, "What's your email?"

"Bainie12@aol.com," he informs me, then adds, "It was my number."

I understand immediately. He was a quarterback. He played football. Twelve was his jersey number.

I correspond with several of my former football teammates. Please know that we were decidedly small time - but never mind - more than a few of us have put our numbers into our email address. As for me, my number is sprinkled throughout my many computer passwords. A lot of passwords require numbers and I get mine from old football jerseys.

Sometimes - more often than not - I make up passwords from ancient football plays. I think of this as quite clever. No joke.

For example: 108Lateral, 211Reverse, and LinePlunge17 (17 was my HS number when the "line plunge" was in fashion). Cool huh?

My personal favorite is: 17FB29IB19HB, which represents my three numbers, 17 as a fullback in high school, 29 as an "I" formation back in prep school and 19 when I was a halfback in college. So far, in the three or so years that I have used this password, it has never failed to bring a warm feeling to my chest each time I type it.

I'm not making this up. Yes, I know. Nuts.

Regardless, here's what happened the other day.

I was at the gym, post workout. I walked into the locker room and noticed a young man was using the locker right next to mine. As was the protocol, he apologized for choosing a locker so close.

"No problem," I offered.

"It was my number," he says, "twenty-two." He gave me a sheepish grin, then went on to describe his most recent athletic endeavor. "I just got back from Finland," he said.

"Really?" I said.

"I was playing professional hockey there. But they couldn't give me my number."

Hmmmm.

Of course I recognized the story, a thinly disguised variation of my own I played football story collection. I gave him my full attention.   

"They couldn't give me 22 in Finland. They said they only went up to 20. I could have either 2 or 20." 

"So which did you choose?" I asked.

As one who has told many a tall football tale, I obliged him with all due courtesy, plus I nodded and asked questions so he didn't have to resort to speed-talking in run-on sentences, a common necessity, with seniors speaking to disinterested parties.

Needless to say, I got an ear full, which brought on a feeling not unlike - my good deed for today.

FYI: He chose 20.

Walking out from the gym I chuckled to myself about the encounter and then got a bright idea. Next time I book a flight I'll reserve a seat in aisle 19. Then when I board, I'll stash my bags overhead, squeeze in, arrange the seat-belt, fiddle with my stuff (laptop, newspaper, neck cushion), settle in, get comfortable and exhale.  I'll look to my right (or left). I'll make eye contact.

"Ah ... aisle 19," I'll say. Eye to eye now. "It was my number." Blank stare. "Football number," I'll offer with a half smile, slightly apologetic.

Actually, I wouldn't expect any real interest.  

But hey … I think the point is not that others hear the story. The point is that I hear it, again

Candles For Sale

                                Candles For Sale

I’m picking up my grandson, Johnny, after school. I spot him walking across the lawn, coming toward me with his friend, Ryan. Both are 8th graders.

They pile into the back seat. I notice each is carrying what looks like a magazine. “What’s that?” I ask pointing at the magazine.

“It’s a catalog,” Johnny says.

“May I see it?” I say reaching for the magazine.

I flip through it, noticing mostly glossy images of candles and prices. “We’re selling those.” John says. 
I pause, collecting my thoughts.

“John,” I say, “I only say this because I don’t want you to be disappointed, but nobody wants to buy these things.”

John replies, “It’s for the 8th grade dance.”

“I know all about it,” I offer in my know-it-all tone, then add, “tell you what, I’ll donate ten dollars to the dance, but you can keep the candles. How much do you make for each candle you sell?”

Ryan pipes in, “Twenty percent.”

“OK,” I say, “so if a candle is twenty dollars, you make four dollars. So I’ll give you twelve dollars. That’s like selling three candles.”

“We can’t do that,” John says.

“I know, I know,” I say, “but honestly, I don’t understand why you can’t do that. You’d make twelve dollars. Isn’t that the point?”

“We can’t,” Ryan says in a soft apologetic voice.

I’ve tried this strategy before, must be a hundred times, over the last forty years, beginning with my two daughters, selling candy bars mostly, but also oversized popcorn tins, and I think also, candles. Now it’s the grand-kids. Why are contributions not accepted? Don’t ask. It’s always a no. Somebody should change the rules, I think.

The boys are silent.

“So Ryan, you’re coming to John’s house?”

“Uh huh,” he responds.

Along the way, I notice a neighbor out on his front lawn. “Here,” I say, “why don’t we stop and ask this guy - what’s his name? - if he wants to buy a candle. That will prove my point. I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”  I say this in the nicest, most loving tone I can muster. 

No comment from the boys. Of course I really wasn’t going to stop.

Further along we pass a middle age man strolling down the sidewalk. He’s a familiar figure, always out walking about. “How about this guy,” I say.  Again, no comment.

I let the whole issue drop. I just hope they’re not disappointed, that’s all.

I pull into the driveway. The boys get out, go inside for some snacks. I stay in the car. Open my computer. I start to read the Times newspaper, online.

Time passes. I look up from the news. Gosh, almost an has hour gone by. A few minutes later I notice Johnny and Ryan walking up the driveway from the front sidewalk. They’re carrying their catalogs and some other papers. I immediately surmise that they were out selling candles. Poor kids, I think.

I surmise that the papers in their hands are order forms. Maybe they actually sold one, I think. 
I lean toward them and shout through the open car window. “Where were you guys?” I say.

“Selling candles,” they reply.

“How’d it go?” I ask.

“We sold fifteen candles,” John says, “almost two hundred dollars.”

Hmmmm. So much for grandpa’s wisdom.

As for the innocence and faith of youth, One word: beautiful.