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Health & Fitness

Reunion

I had this odd feeling that my classmates were talking about another person.

I had been mulling it over for about a month and had one more day to mail my check for $80 if I wanted to attend my high school’s 50-year reunion.

Sure, the thought of reconnecting with some of my old (no pun intended) classmates was intriguing. On the other hand, there were many I had absolutely zero desire to see. Let alone hear all about how they spent their adult lives.

After much deliberation, I decided to go. So I drove to Brooklyn that Saturday and, upon entering my old high school, was given a badge to wear bearing my name and graduation photo. A good idea, I thought, the only way anybody’s going to recognize anybody today.

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Walking around, I spotted a profile that, despite the years, looked familiar. My eyes quickly went to the badge and, sure enough, it was Peter H. 

“Pete?”

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Peter turned to me, his eyes darting from my face to the badge then back to my face – quickly followed by a big “Mike! How are you?” 

“I’m good,” I said, as we shook hands. “How about you?”

“I’m fine.  You won’t believe this.  I was just telling Tracy here ... you remember Tracy D. ... ”

“Of course. How are you Tracy?” I said, extending my hand. 

“I’m good. Pete was just telling me about the time Brother Eugene threatened to throw you out the window.” 

I furrowed my brow, trying to recall the incident. “I don’t remember.”

Pete smiled. “You were reading some book you weren’t supposed to be reading, and Brother Eugene saw you. He said that if you didn’t stop reading, he was going to throw you and the book out the window. And you said ...”  Pete laughed. “I don’t think he heard you, but you said, ‘I hope you throw the book out first, because if you throw me first, the book might hit me in the head and hurt me.’ ”  

Pete and Tracy laughed, while I stood there smiling, having absolutely no recollection whatsoever of the event.  

“You were the funniest guy in the class,” Pete added.

“I was?”

“I thought so.”

“I thought so, too,” Tracy chimed in.

“Ace!” cried a voice from behind, prompting Pete, Tracy and me to turn our heads.

A short man, with closely cropped gray hair approached. “Ace, how are you?” he said, reaching out to shake my hand “John G.” 

“What’s with the Ace stuff?” I asked, shaking his hand.

“You don’t remember? Pitching quarters in back of the class?”

I slowly shook my head, trying unsuccessfully to recall what was clearly vivid in John’s mind.

“One day,” John continued, “one of the guys ... I forget who it was ... wanted to pitch nickels, and you said, ‘Forget it, this is a quarter game.’  That’s when we started calling you Ace.”

For the second time in just a few minutes I had this odd sensation, feeling as though my classmates were talking about another person. It had an almost out-of-body quality to it. 

There was more storytelling during dinner, including a few additional tales about yours truly – some I remembered, most I didn’t. Whenever I heard one I couldn’t recall, I experienced that same, curious, third-person sensation.  

You never know, I thought, driving home. I was worried that I was going to learn more than I needed to about my classmates. And, instead, I wound up learning a little about myself.

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