He leaned in close so only the two of us could hear and said, “God loves you.” “I know He does,” I replied to the surgeon. “No, I mean He REALLY loves you!” the surgeon insisted. “After seeing what we just had to fix, I don’t know why you didn’t have a major coronary … but you didn’t, so He must love you a lot!” That got my attention. I mean, it REALLY got my attention. Up until then, I had taken to celebrating various anniversaries of my 29th birthday. The anniversary before my doctor’s chilling observation was my 19th and final such celebration.

People are funny about age. When they’re under 21, they count the half year: “He’s 1-1/2.” “I’m 16-1/2.” Between 21 and roughly 75, whatever the whole number indicates is usually offered at face value: “I’m 51.” After that, it’s back to emphasizing the half year: “I’m 83-1/2.” How someone treats his own birthday is a personal matter. How someone else treats it can be a horse of a different stripe.

High on my list of irritants is the way in which some well-meaning yahoo hangs a number on you, when he decides you’re moorings have come loose and you’re drifting so far from shore that he simply must announce to the world: “He’s 97-1/2 years YOUNG!” or even worse, addresses you as “Young fellow.” These last two are the blood pressure boosting parents of all insults to a mature person who has devoured huge chunks of life, and earned at least a modicum of respect for enduring the experience. It may come as a shock to many young whippersnappers who have spent far too much time sitting around snapping their young whippers … but old people know that they’re old! Believe me, they actually do.

During that 21 to 75 period, I see most people regarding birthdays as a necessary inconvenience, sometimes to the point of actual rejection … like the silliness of celebrating birthday anniversaries instead of coming clean on the total. A couple of my favorite denial clichés are, “Oh, it’s just a number,” or “You’re as young as you feel.” Heck, some days I feel about a hundred seventy-five! Does that mean I’m walking in Moses’ footprints? It’s amazing how fast birthday-bashing can come to a screeching, grinding halt once you’ve stood eye-to-eye with your own mortality.

Kids are bulletproof, indestructible and even immortal. They’re never going to get old and prune up like those “L” shaped relics they see chugging along, clutching their walkers or canes. Sadly, some of them don’t. The concept of disease is an abstract to a majority of young people … and death is something that only knocks on the other guy’s door. Maybe that’s why it’s mostly the young who go off to war.

When the team manager moved me from second base to first, I knew I had lost a step. Nobody had to tell me I wasn’t moving to my left fast enough to stop some of those grounders anymore. At the tender age of 34, when I allowed my wife [in another life] to convince me to stop playing ball altogether, I realized I probably lost more than just a step. That was about the time I formulated my “Nature’s Cruelest Joke” philosophy,  having to do with a 20 year old kid being trapped in a 200,000 mile body … only back then, as it turned out, there were only about 75,000 miles on it.

My good friend Bill never fails to send me a greeting every January 29th wishing me a “Happy Born Day.” I like the gentle sound of that wish … and it offers those still in denial a little wiggle room. As for me? Ever since Dr. Wang’s attention-getting surgical suite pronouncement my attitude has become, “Lord, bring me as many of these things as you can.” I have all of eternity to enjoy eternity and still too much I want to do right here!

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.

I stood there motionless with the 8-ball clutched tightly in my hand, its unblinking eye staring defiantly up at me. It was the winter of my eighteenth year and I was playing a game that could change my entire future … even determine if I was going to have one! There was no felt covered table, no long, tapered cue. There was only that 8-ball locking its mocking gaze with mine, as the small black triangle floated slowly into view and the words (Ask again later) became legible through its murky fluid.

“What’d it say?” Bob asked anxiously, as he edged closer to look over my shoulder. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw those silvery syllables in the window. That was the fourth straight time the magic orb had refused to give us a straight answer. With twenty different possibilities, you’d think the thing would come up with something different after four tries, but on the fifth query the 8-ball put us off again. It really got spooky when we finally changed our question and it changed it’s answer!

Bob was my best friend, we were like brothers … whatever happened to him usually happened to me and vice versa. Therefore, it was only natural that when we bought the little fortune-telling device, we would share its mystical powers and question it together. Somehow, the words toy and novelty on the package managed to elude both of us. It’s amazing what a couple of kids can believe when manhood is nibbling at their toes and the future is squeezing their shoes.

In those days I was commuting to a nearby college and my buddy, who lived away at school, drove the three or so hours home for the weekend. It had become our custom to spend most Friday nights quietly sipping wine, chomping on French bread and playing chess. But this Friday we had a different diversion … actually two diversions: the 8-ball and our runaway imaginations.

We started out asking it innocent questions like, “Will we have dates tomorrow night?” (Signs Point to Yes) or, “Am I going to pass my exam Tuesday?” (It is decidedly so). Then we climbed to the next plateau with tidbits like, “Will Bob marry what’s-her-name?” (Very Doubtful) and so it went for the better part of an hour, gradually increasing the importance of each question … each response from the ball seemingly more accurate, more believable than the last. Finally we moved in on the big kahuna, life itself. It was probably the answer sequence that got our attention more than anything else and short circuited the bone in our heads that regulates rational thought.

“Am I going to live to 60?” (Don’t count on it).  “What about Bob?” (My sources say no). “Either of us to 50?” (Cannot predict now). We stopped thinking it was entertaining as 40 and 30 shot by until we finally got a (Yes – Definitely) at 20. 20? That’s not very reassuring when you’re 18 and 19! Now there was no turning back. We strode ever deeper into a mind numbing fog that defied all logic. The ball took on a life of its own!  “What are we gonna’ do, die together?” (Outlook good). The questioning process to determine exactly how would glaze your eyes over … and that’s when the softball-size globe nearly found itself in a one way game of catch with the wall! But we couldn’t do that! We had to know!

Responses like (Ask again later), (Better not tell you now) and (Reply hazy, try again) lost all their magic until, at last, we got the affirming answer (It is certain). Unfortunately, by that time we had already done a half-gainer into the deep end of the mental absurdity pool. What the little round fortune teller had now confirmed was that we would be killed together in a fiery car crash by the time we were 21! We just looked at each other for a brief eternity then, in unbalanced stereo chorused, “Who’s driving?” We were laughing … laughing but shaken, as we put the plastic sphere away in the back of a closet forever and played some chess. I lost every game.

Last year, nearly half a century later, I was browsing in my pharmacy’s toy section when what to my wandering eyes should appear to the rear of a shelf but two boxes marked, “Magic 8-Ball.” I picked one up, focused on its unblinking eye and asked, “Should I send one to Bob for Christmas?” The small black triangle floated slowly into view and the words (Ask again later) became legible through its murky fluid. I bought both balls anyway, without further testing their powers, and sent one wrapped with a black bow to my old friend. The other, of course, I kept for myself.

Bob called Christmas morning. He remembered! We had a good laugh but agreed these weighty little sayers of sooth were best relegated to special moments from yesteryear … and the only question to ever be associated with either of them would be which stack of papers they’d keep from blowing off the desk.

Listen to Bananas Crackers and Nuts Podcast. Find Links under “Recent Podcasts”… and more shows on my Podcast Page.