The Lost Wind

Boys will be boys! Isn’t that the adage? Adage or not, it’s sometimes enough to drive a mother crazy.

While we didn’t live in the part of the city occupied by tall skyscrapers or high-rise apartment buildings, our town was still considered to be within the city limits – meaning that our parks opened at seven in the morning and closed at dusk unless the city was holding a special community event.

Teenage boys wanting to occupy themselves after dinner with a game of flag football or roller hockey was never considered to be a community event. That left the teens nowhere to play but on the city street. That put them in the dilemma of watching diligently for traffic while trying to concentrate on winning a game or not playing at all.

For those not familiar with Flag Football, I’ll explain. Each boy was given a rag to be placed in their back pockets. Since there was eight of them, they used two colors, four boys assigned one color and the other four, the other color.

Since they were playing on a paved road, rather than a hard tackle, they’d pull the rag out of a pocket and that signaled a tackle but keeping the boys safe.

Being young energetic teens, even while they played their hearts out, they were careful to watch for approaching cars. Playing on a side street was safer and since most of the boys lived on our street or the next, our street was usually the chosen venue.

As I said, there were eight of them including my two sons. Their ages ranged from twelve (or as Tommy said, “almost thirteen”) to sixteen. Even with the age differences, they were a tight-knit group. In fact, after all these years, marriages, and moves, they still are. They talk on the phone at least once a month.

Being so close, not just in age but in their friendship, no one was surprised when as the boys eventually stood at the altars with their future wives, the attendants were their life-long friends. Relationships, break-ups, engagements, weddings, and babies – whatever the occasions, they were there for each other.

The only drawback to their friendship was Ryan. Don’t misunderstand me but Ryan was a bit on the slow side. We never knew what was wrong with him. He was not retarded or autistic. At least, not as far as anyone knew. He was simply different. Since we lived across the street from the school, we’d often see him walk home but in circles with his arms outstretched. If someone planted a row of flowers outside their home, he’d deliberately stomp on them as he passed by while singing, “Nobody loves me.” Yet, he was always included in everything the other boys did, even being included in the wedding ceremonies.

I know I’m jumping back and forth but I can’t stress enough how their friendship has grown from the time they were three years old and now my younger son will be fifty-six this year (2022). Wow! Talk about a ton load of memories.

Now, I’ll trip back.

It was the summer of 1980 and my older son, Tony just turned fourteen and my younger son, Frankie, thirteen. The night was cool but not cold. The boys made their phone calls and so it was arranged for a few hours of flag football.

As their game progressed, the sky darkened and the only light available was the illumination from the streetlights that were placed strategically on the sidewalks.

Periodically, I would look out the window to check on them. I still worried about them being so young and playing in the street, even while they would assure me that they were “almost grown up” and would be fine.

I turned and walked to the back of my house where my kitchen lay and decided a cup of hot tea would hit the spot.

Before I had the chance to put the kettle on the stove, Ryan ran, almost crashing through the front door. He sounded almost hysterical, which honestly wasn’t all that odd or out of place for him. It wasn’t how he relayed his “news,” it was what he passionately screamed.

“Tony was just hit by a car! Tony’s on the ground. Tony can’t breathe.”

My heart was trying to beat out of my chest! I ran out the door forgetting I was in my bare feet.

Outside, I saw the boys crowded around Tony, but didn’t see any car that might have hit him.

I excitedly and anxiously demanded the boys back up. Kneeling, I quickly examined my son. No, I’m not a nurse but had just finished my advanced first aid course at the local ambulance department. I needed to see how bad he was so I could relay the information to the 9-1-1 operator asap.

I found no open or bleeding wounds. I gently touched his limbs, torso, head, and neck, taking extra precaution to avoid moving him too much.

I found nothing.

“Tony,” I asked quickly, “what hurts?”

“Mom, I’m ok.” This was the response I wanted to hear and one I truly expected and knowing my son. I wasn’t surprised since he was never one to make a fuss about himself.

“Tony, you need to be honest with me. What hurts?”

“Mom, I was running to catch the ball and look back to see where it was going. I ran straight in that car.” He pointed to the card PARKED and off to his right side. “I just knocked the wind out of me. That’s all, mom, I swear.”

The other boys confirmed his statement.

Now, I wanted to swear!

“Ryan!” I almost screamed. “You told me Tony was hit by a car! What the heck is wrong with you? You scared the heck out of me?” Ok, I’ll confess, I didn’t say “heck.”

“Well, they did collide!” He said as if there was nothing wrong with what he said.

I asked Frankie and one of the other boys to help Tony up since he was still out of breath and get him in the front yard.

After a few minutes, Tony said he wanted to continue the game. I hesitated but finally agreed making him promise that if anything started to hurt, he’d need to stop the game and come right home. He agreed and so the game continued and finally, ended.

While it’s been forty-one years since that cool, summer night, I remember it as if it were yesterday.

Except for Ryan, all the boys are now happily married men with grown children of their own. They have all moved to various places, some even settling in other states. They still keep in touch, again except for Ryan who they all hear from maybe about once a year.

I’m sure with all the chaos in their own lives, none remembers the incident of Tony’s calamity with a parked car, but a mother never forgets.

It could have been worse, and I am so thankful it wasn’t.

Yet, when I do think of this incident, I’m always reminded of that adage: boys will be boys!