A Man’s Reflection on the Old Gang
by There’s this line from The Sandlot—a simple moment that resonates deeply. The narrator says, “At some point in your childhood, you and your friends went outside to play together for the last time, and nobody knew it.” When I first heard it, I was a kid who didn’t know a damn thing about growing older. Now, decades later, it just hurts. It hurts not because it’s a sobering reminder that life is an unknown quantity of seconds, minutes, hours, days, or years, but because those days playing were so damn good.
I think about us—thirteen years old, meeting outside the portables at Edith Rogers to break off into groups who would play basketball or Dungeons & Dragons (Naveed and Duncan, how far you’ve come). The day Moon came to school after losing his dad to a workplace accident and not really knowing how to process it, as I watched the girls carrying him around as if being reminded of his small stature would somehow make him feel better. Being dumbfounded when Holmes pushed Scheutz while he was emotional after receiving some bad news, then threw a punch and slammed his locker closed before walking out of the school. Riding bikes from 6–7 a.m. until 11 p.m. with Watson. The first day at McNally, meeting Paul from The Wonder Years and learning that his real name was Rey and that he was a cousin of Naveed’s (“Want to do a lap at Rum Jungle on the way home?”). Nights at the “triangle” playing football in the snow, until inevitably someone’s jersey or coat got ripped apart and we had to move inside Anderson’s. We were all awkward, but we all loved doing stuff together.
Yet look at the miles we’ve covered since: heartbreak, marriages, divorces, losing jobs, losing parents, drunken brawls at Fast Eddie’s (the ones we laugh about now but know could’ve ended a lot worse), Luu’s keg parties with the bat as the doorman, hours on the rugby pitch or football field caked in mud, and a few glowing moments of triumph we swore we’d never forget.
I’m fifty now—or close enough—and sometimes I feel like my brain never caught up to the calendar. I’ve got all these vivid memories of us stumbling through adolescence, trying to fit in and not get left behind, wondering who might figure out something to do while also hoping not to be forgotten by the group. But I’m also the guy who’s spent way too much time in his own head, occasionally forgetting to reach out. Chalk it up to an ADHD mind or just old-fashioned selfishness, but I’ve let months—sometimes years—pass without calling. It’s not that I don’t care. In fact, I care so much it’s damn near impossible to articulate. But if you’re out of sight, my restless thoughts move on to the next shining object until life kicks me in the gut and reminds me how much you mattered all along.
“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’”
To the old crew: You formed me. In ways I’ll never fully untangle, you shaped my sense of humor, my thresholds for loyalty, and even my approach to fatherhood (or unclehood, depending on your situation). Whatever good I can muster in this life is rooted in that camaraderie—the countless times we had each other’s backs, whether it was dislocating something in a pickup game or stepping between a buddy and some loudmouth who didn’t know we were the McNally “united nations” and stuck up for each other.
Now, driving a bus full of kids each morning, I can’t help but see little echoes of us. Kids like Oleh, who steps in to lead with kindness and patience. Leonard, who hugs his dad every day with a love so visible it makes me pause. Ivanna and Ano, whose bright spirits remind me of the sparks we carried in our laughter back then. Yuha, who carries herself with such calm wisdom it’s hard to believe she’s still so young. Brankica, whose genuine laughter could light up the darkest day. Isela, whose quiet presence carries a steady strength. Grace, patiently waiting as her older brothers push ahead of her to get on the bus, and her incredibly quiet voice when she asks me something. Kailey running for the bus and letting me know Jessica and Chloe are coming with their little legs trying to catch up. Jack, who lacks impulse control to quiet his emotions, like me.
Watching these kids interact feels like watching time fold in on itself. They remind me of us. They remind me of my oldest friend Saqib, which started with a ball to my face and the hurt pride (and nose) that led me to hit him in first grade, only to discover he was my new neighbor and soon to be best friend. They remind me that somewhere in all those chaotic days, we found something sacred: connection.
To the teachers and coaches who helped us along the way, and to the ones shaping these kids now—thank you. Many of my friends went on to become teachers and coaches themselves, and it feels poetic somehow. Like the lessons we learned as kids have been passed on to a new generation.
Men, as we age, we often let our friendships slide. There’s a stat that says men over forty have fewer than two close friends. Compare that to women, who seem to instinctively understand the value of reconnecting. As comedian John Mulaney said, “You know you’re getting older when your best friend calls you and says, ‘Hey, wanna get lunch?’ and your immediate reaction is, ‘What happened? Are you okay?’”
It’s easy to lose touch, but it doesn’t have to be that way. So here’s my simple vow: I’ll try. I’ll try to call more, text more, maybe even visit. Because friendship is the inheritance we pass to ourselves: shared jokes, shared wounds, and the unspoken bond that says, I’ve got you.
“A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.”
The Echo of Who We Were
There’s a reverberation in time,
Where memory and reality play tricks on the present,
A subtle flit between then and now—
And then it’s gone.
It’s gone.
Snowy games of football we’ve outgrown.
We were lords of cul-de-sacs and kings of muddy fields,
Daydreamers weaving cautionary tales from broken sticks and broken chains.
We claimed night skies as our canopy of possibility,
Blissfully unaware that each fleeting second was a rare coin
We’d spend with the giddy abandon of young aristocrats.
They said you can’t go home again,
But nobody told us home was never a place—
It was the chorus of voices bouncing between portable walls,
The hush of conspiratorial whispers in the locker slats,
The unspoken vow: I see you, I know you, I’ll stand by you.
In that vow, we carried each other—
Through hurricanes of heartbreak and quiet avalanches of loss,
Through sleepless nights where grief felt bottomless,
Through triumphs that left us breathless
And bitter defeats that planted resilience like a seed.
Now adulthood fits like a pressed suit tailored for someone else,
Heavy with mortgages and schedules and “maybe next time.”
But beneath the jacket, beneath the collared shirt,
You’ll see a patchwork of constellations we once played beneath—
That starry map that led us to who we might still become.
Time’s trick is a curious magic—
Turning mischief makers into guardians of the next generation,
Turning the shy ones into fearless advocates,
Turning impulsive dreamers into shamans of hope.
Yet, the compass of connection we forged long ago remains intact.
Oh, how we differ now:
A kaleidoscope of opinions, an orchestra of mismatched talents,
New scars, new burdens, new truths—
But also new grace, the kind we learned
By watching each other survive, adapt, and rise.
We measure the distance in memories instead of miles,
Tracing back to days when jokes were currency,
Tears were confessions,
And loyalties were etched into the dried rivulets on chubby cheeks.
Let the cynics talk about drifting apart,
While we remember how to hold space for each other’s pain,
How to greet old wounds without fear or shame,
How to transform fractures into luminous windows—
Where empathy spills out and floods the dark corners.
So, we become time-travelers in each other’s presence,
Summoning the echoes of who we were.
Triangle champions, every one of us!
Husbands, dads, grandfathers—
An unbreakable testament to the marrow of friendship.
To the spouses and children who can’t imagine our younger selves—
From teenage bravado to adulthood’s humility—
We fought to keep each other standing when the world tried to knock us down.
Here’s to us.
Here’s to every group of friends who’s ever found refuge in kindred spirits.
Here’s to the messy, beautiful mess born of honest hearts,
Where every color, every quirk, every difference became the threads that bound us.
In the end, it’s not just about the stories shared or the battles won—
It’s about the moments when time plays a trick:
When we are back in reality and the memory is what is to come—
And then it’s gone.
It’s gone.
To be human is to belong to each other,
To keep each other’s flames burning when darkness presses in,
To remain anchored in the promise that we will not walk alone.
And maybe that is our gift, our legacy, our testimony—
That despite the storms, despite the changes,
We remain each other’s assurance in who we once were.
And then it’s gone.
It’s gone.
May we never forget the strength of these ties,
Even as our ability to hold a thought weakens.
Stronger than any distance, deeper than any fear,
They are the silent vow woven into our every breath:
When you need me, I am here; when I stumble, you lift me—
And all of us keep moving forward, together.
Let these words be a well of gratitude,
A reminder stamped upon our hearts
That we are each other’s home.
And in that sense—
We can always, always, find our way back.
– Clayton Dorcas
French 
English 
