First Friends

I met my first friend on the first day of 1st grade. It was an early September day like so many since, but fixed securely in my memory. His name was Tim.  It was our first recess of the new year. Like many young boys attempting to establish dominance over the playground, Tim issued me a challenge, as if the schoolyard was a jungle clearing and he was the old silverback gorilla.

"Hey, do you wanna race?"

I meekly accepted and Tim quickly mapped out our course. Somewhere in my six-year old mind the concept of a "hustle" was forming, but backing down didn't seem like an option.  We toed a chalky starting line hastily scratched out on the pavement. At the command, "Go!", Tim and I tore down the asphalt. To his horror and my surprise, we were running neck and neck. Duly frightened, Tim pulled away, narrowly escaping defeat.

"Nice race," he gasped between breaths, "I'm Tim. Who are you?" I replied with my full name. "You're pretty fast Bergy, wanna be friends?"

Tim had dubbed me Bergy, a lifelong nickname that stuck, and cemented a friendship in the process. A playground dare would grow into a typical bond between two boys.

Tim and I, however, couldn't have been more different.  The only thing we had in common, but something many boys share, was a love of sports. Tim was adored by girls and worshipped by  boys. Girls usually left me speechless. Tim was fearless, afraid of no one, unable to resist a challenge or turn the other cheek. I was cautious and careful, doing my best to avoid conflict whenever possible.

The only place that I excelled where Tim didn't was school. This would never change, and by an unspoken agreement he leaned on me. Tim's smarts were from the street, which he had in abundance, but the classroom was never a setting he was completely comfortable.

Tim and I gradually drifted apart in our teens, as childhood friends often do. But our friendship survived those years because we each had qualities that were admired and respected by the another. When I needed help, Tim was there. When Tim leaned me in the classroom, I didn't hesitate, giving him a hand any way I could.

The closest we ever came to a rift occurred in 11th grade. I briefly dated a girl that Tim had just broken up with. She and I would become lifelong friends, but even years later I regretted the jeopardy I had put my friendship with Tim in. Not surprisingly, he took the situation in stride as he did everything else and showed me by example that our bond couldn't be broken by any girl. The only mention of it he ever made was to affectionately punch me on the arm and say, "Bergy, we've been friends this long . . . no one can change that." To my great relief, no one did.

The happiest memory I have of Tim was when we both returned from separate colleges on our first Thanksgiving break after high school graduation. Unbeknownst to him, a couple of friends and I drove over to Tim's house and came in the front door unannounced. We all hugged and wrestled each other to the ground, whooping in our exuberance. The laughter and elation was genuine and unaffected. Tim's father, whom I greatly admired, looked on in amusement and, perhaps, some pride.

As Tim and I passed out of our teens and into adulthood, our lives took different paths. Tim's road looped back to our hometown. Mine took me away for good, returning to visit sporadically. We kept in touch for many years as best we could, but the gaps grew larger until now a year or longer passes between hellos.

My friendship with Tim seems to exists primarily in the past now. And because of that, I can unabashedly say that I miss my friend and hope he is well. Maybe our friendship is best left back there in our youth, covered with fond memories. Between visits that now stretch into years, another silent agreement was formed, one in which we seem to understand that the present is not a place our friendship can thrive. The differences that many years ago brought two small boys together inevitably pushed two middle-aged men apart.

Tim was my first friend, and for that and so much more, I will never forget him. Across countless playgrounds, countless first friendships are forming. Some will last a lifetime. Some won't survive childhood. All will be meaningful. Maybe some will even begin with the words . . . 

"Hey, do you wanna race?"