I Miss the Boys
I’m at the point in my life where I have almost no one left to share my successes with—am I being selfish? Most of the boys—my brothers in spirit—are gone. The men I grew close to, who stood by me through thick and thin, have passed on. And I miss them more than words can say.
We were more than friends. We were a brotherhood. We celebrated each other’s wins, lifted each other through losses, and stood side by side through life’s biggest moments. We shared anniversaries, our kids’ weddings, birthdays, retirements—even funerals. We showed up for each other, no matter what. That kind of connection ran deep.
We always got together on the weekends to go out. One Saturday we were celebrating my friend’s birthday and ended up at a club in Harlem. I don’t know how we wound up there, but we did. The clientele was mostly Black, and they welcomed us with warmth and good energy. We sat down, had drinks, and lots of fun. I was a little high, but I was funny—making everyone laugh. A woman sat next to me and started talking. In jest, I turned to Moe and said, “Hey Moe, is this lady good looking?” He smiled, not saying much. I can still remember his smile – it told me the whole story. I turned back to the lady politely. Later, I wandered off and Moe found me sitting with complete strangers. He rushed over, ready to apologize, but the people said, “No, leave him—he’s making us laugh.” I remember them also saying, “He’s okay, he’s okay, leave him.” They were enjoying my company.
When the club closed, we waited for the car. I started walking around singing and ended up passed out by a flagpole. The boys picked me up from the ground and put me in the car, and then drove to my house, where they had to carry me up the stairs. My friends knocked on the door. My mother answered, Pepsi Cola in hand, and started screaming, “What happened to my son!” They said, “He’s okay, just drunk.” They still joke that she almost hit them with the Pepsi. They threw me in bed, and took off! But, to my horror, my aunt was there too, yelling, “Shame on you! Why you come home drunk?” I crawled under the bed to escape the noise and eventually fell asleep.
Sunday morning, the boys came to take me to Jones Beach. My mother told them, “He’s still in bed.” They said, “Don’t worry about it—we’ll still take him.” I was out cold, so they carried me to the car, then to a blanket on the sand at Jones Beach. To make it worse, the boys decided to dunk me in the water. I was half-awake and started yelling, “You can’t dunk me without putting in my ear plugs—I’ve got a bad ear infection!” My mother, always looking out for me, had given the boys my ear plugs—knowing that if water got in my ears, I’d get a terrible headache from the infection. They found the ear plugs in my pocket, put them in, and then dunked me in the ocean anyway! A group of girls nearby yelled, “What are you doing to that poor guy?” Once I was back on the blanket, I invited the girls to pull their blanket closer, they did—and we had a great time. These boys cared about me even at my worst and always included me in the fun.
Weeks later, we planned a trip to Wildwood, New Jersey. But first, on Friday night, after we all got paid, we went to Roosevelt Racetrack. I was not a gambler and normally wouldn’t gamble—my friends were the gamblers. But somehow, that night I got caught up in the excitement and gambled my entire paycheck away, left with only $10! For some reason, we were going to use my car to go to Wildwood, and now with no money, we wouldn’t be able to afford the trip. I told Moe, “I only have $10 left.” He said, “What are you gonna do with it—wipe your ass with it?” So I bet it all on a long shot. It paid $400. The horse came in. We were thrilled—we could go to Wildwood. I was lucky, but it taught me a lesson: don’t gamble. I never gambled again. I made good money and nearly threw it away that night. But, as with many times in my life, someone came to my rescue.
Not all the boys are gone. A few still remain—and I hold them close. I don’t want to be sad. I want to hold on to the good times we had. But it is not easy for me. I struggle every day and night. Most are not here to see how far I’ve come. And that hurts. But it also gives me strength. I know they’d want me to keep going, to keep living, to keep building something meaningful. So I will. I’ll carry their memory with me in every step, every win, every moment of joy. I’ll live in a way that honors them.
I miss the boys. And I always will.
There are many more good times we shared together—and I will share them another time.
