Let’s Go March-ing in. Just like the Saints. And my PC Friars of course. (In my world Ed Cooley eats free at the Academy any night he wants-Hey Murph, you gonna waive the fees if he’s looking for a tee time at Bradford?). I watch the basketball games and wonder if this is their March? But that is another story for another day. Today is the time to sway away on my hammock and hop around my hot tub overlooking the beach of my life, here is the latest…

“Going to Chuck’s” were the words I used once upon a day. Back when I discovered the joys of language and all of it’s clever connotations, around the time I was sharp enough or wise enough or more accurately…foolish enough to think I knew it all, I would throw that line over my tanned and super muscular buff shoulder that realistically more closely resembled a starving chicken’s wing than Hulk Hogan’s Lat and then I’d happily skip out the front door of 211. Convincing me that I am the smartest man in the room has never taken a lot of effort. I mean humble is not my pie. I already invented plausible deniability. Anything to get around that Catholic guilt. Whatever. But what do I really mean?

That’s always been the question.

Well, I was always searching for the perfect alibi. Aren’t we all? See when I was of a certain age and I was dutifully dropping these words off, it meant either we were going to my buddy’s house (Charlie’s). Or we were headed up to the hill- to chug suds and chase coeds at a notoriously under-chaperoned bar called Hungry Chuck’s. Either way, I was covered with alibis and satisfaction. Or possibly truth. Hmmm. Anyways, we traveled to the ‘Cuse of Orange fame for February’s FreeTime and I got a chance to hug my homies from the Glory Days of Grimes circa 1990!

It was an epic day. Charlie had all the boys there. That makes sense, he was the vociferous, veal parmigiana of point guards. He was skilled at orchestrating our circus and somehow…in the winter of ‘89 he even got the bright idea to park his car, “the banana boat” so close to our hapless math teacher’s car- he couldn’t get in without crawling across the passenger side…probably it was Frank’s idea…good one Chas. But really. Really. It was great. So thanks to those guys. And Chuck. But, I wonder what consequences the assistant principal doled out that day? Probably not as severe as the consequence for being late to Charlie’s house.

If we were late to his house back in the day, your team was stuck waiting on the porch to play hoops. You’d be stuck amidst the trash-talking early birds who were already chirping and dribbling and shooting. I also loved the cooking that emanated from that house. We couldn’t leave the premises until we tasted it all. Fish, pasta, cheese- ring a bell? Let me close my eyes and open my imaginary watering mouth and have another piece of the ricotta pie and a pizza roll from Gramma Falg.

Thanks boys. The absolute cherry on top of my “return to my roots at 50” was seeing my oldest pal from the Cirlce of Stillwell …PK who is doing well. He even apologized for paying a debt to me in pennies. Yeah, it was probably a 1980’s era matchup of the Final Four that led to a wager, and I- the fast talking footloose and fancy free prognosticator won all that cash…But my Hosehead Brother-in-Arms, a fierce competitor if there ever was one, really needed that last laugh. SO. He paid his debt in full. In pennies. Not from heaven. Mind you. Just pennies. He got to Charlie, I mean chuckle all the way home as I was left holding the 37 pound bag of coins…speaking of bags…that I get left holding…

I think I hear the Real Boss pulling up with the groceries now, so I should go and just say, “Thanks for Coming!” Next time, I can explain how my Charlie turned into a Friar and became an Irish Lawyer seeking higher office. But again…another story for another time.