He claimed it was to wish me a happy birthday. I believed him - until he casually mentioned it was around 80 degrees or so outside.
Thanks, Randy.
The two of us go back a long time - something like 12 years. And in 12 years, you get to know someone pretty well - especially in sports and sport-type events.
And we did a lot of sports and sport-type events.
There were those sled rides at 100 miles an hour down the dreaded Demon Mountain, twisting and turning around encumbering pines and other foreign objects - people dogs, rocks, etc. And although there's a difference in the mountain size (and speed, for that matter) now that we're older, supposedly more mature and a bit taller, the memories of those exciting winter days remain. As well as the facial expressions of the people we nearly undercut.
Then there were those nights sitting at the largest comedy club in the world, the Pontiac Silverdome, when the Detroit Lions played someone. (It didn't matter who ... these were the Lions.) No further explanation is needed ... I hope.
The camping trips with the Rambo knife, propane stove and other luxuries of home (boombox, etc.) were always a great time. (Actually, camping is not so much a sport, but a case of survival.)
One time, I nearly ripped off my finger with a makeshift hacksaw stored in the handle of the Rambo knife. Talk about grace under pressure - that's about all I could do, because I certainly didn't show any.
During the summer of 1977, Randy and I went to a summer camp. There, the legendary saga of "Sailing with Randy and Paul" became a way of life.
One day, we're out on the lake in our Sunfish, and the wind switched directions. Randy yelled, "Heads up!" as the boom swung toward me.
I, of course, was not paying attention. So I looked up and yelled, "What?"
Suddenly, I was in the water with a boom bruise on my noggin. And Randy was in hysterics.
As he reached over to pull me back in the boat, the boom caught him. Score this battle, "Boom 2, Noggins 0."
During the past few summers, Randy, his girlfriend Amy, another guy named Paul and I would go cruising on Orchard Lake. The trio tried to teach me how to go boarding, but I was more adept at staying inside the boat.
There were also futile attempts to get me on the jet ski. If you don't know what one is, take it from me - this is not a toy for the squeamish.
One year, randy got a new fishing pole. And we would be in front of his house, practicing the art of reeling and baiting. One lucky day, we finally went out proudly with our fishing gear, and ended up catching ... a passing Cadillac. (Sorry about the paint job, sir!)
Darts were another of Randy's favorites. Our success with pointed objects probably explained our standard line of dialogue: "Hey, my head!" "Watch the aim!" "Where's the safety glasses!"
And, of course, there was the day Randy tried to teach me how to ride a quad.
I'm the first to admit, I wasn't too keen on the idea at first - bopping around on a funky-looking dirtbike. But Randy - being Randy - twisted my arm, and I approved of the new experiment just before my arm really began to hurt.
Hey, I'm no pushover.
Looking back, everything would have been fine if that ditch hadn't been in the way at 30 miles an hour. It's not my fault my foot slid off the pedal and got run over.
Randy moved to Florida the day after Christmas, and although we don't talk on as regular a basis as before, we still keep in touch.
And he told me about the new sport he's fallen in love with. Scuba diving.
Randy is now taking scuba lessons off the Florida coast. And last weekend, he put his schooling to good use.
He went scuba Easter egg hunting.
The logic behind this is, of course, the standard hunt with a twist. You have to do it under water (hence, the name).
Each egg is numbered, and each number corresponds to a prize. So, find the egg, get a gift. Only in America.
Turns out Randy now owns a bundle of merchandise - all for finding eggs.
And I ain't got none. Eggs or otherwise.
Thanks, Randy.
This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.
