In any sporting event, you have some sense of how long it might go. Of course, some legendary games defy the logic of space and time (the Caps’ “Easter Epic”; Nationals-Giants). But, in general, when we hear “one minute, one minute remaining” we know what that means. When the third period of a hockey game starts, we can guess with some accuracy when we might be home.
Such comparisons take on larger significance when you hear the word “cancer.” Your mind may wonder where the clock stands. And when you hear one of your dearest friends give you this news, if you are at all like me, you tell them that they are still solidly in the second period, and you don’t let your mind imagine anything else.
I am speaking in sports terms because I am writing on a hockey blog and also because I am talking about Raconteur, who graces the pages of this blog with his heart and wit and my life with a friendship based in joy, honesty, courage, and understanding. I can describe him in many ways: Evans to my Hewson, Spade to my Marlowe, Watts to my Richards, Elinor to my Marianne, Albini to my Harvey, Hemingway to my Dietrich, a steely-eyed center to my haphazard left wing.
Cancer survivor, though, is the best description I can think of at this time.
And, I am far from alone in this sentiment. Despite his status as my go-to hockey companion, I generally find myself battling for ice time among the many game molls who love him and his insightfulness at sporting events about town. It gets particularly tricky when baseball and hockey seasons collide. I am certain hospital staff members have raised an eyebrow or two over the steady stream of lookers looking after him during his various hospital visits.
He is named Raconteur on this blog for good reason, because he can veer our conversations from exclaiming over the edge work we see on the ice when our seats are close, to being hypnotized by Ovechkin changing out stick tape when our seats are behind and near the Caps bench, to veering into 1930s old-movie banter about any one of these situations just because we can. He does the best Cary Grant I have ever heard at a hockey game or anywhere else. When he can’t attend a game with me, I go by myself or stay home. When he does, we find ourselves in the hilariously Midwestern farce of writing a check to the other that we know will promptly get torn up. It all evens out, when you have a true friend.
He is one of the good ones. As whipsmart as he is compassionate, as funny as he is thoughtful, as joyous as he is disgruntled for comedic effect. The emperor of one-liners, the king of the dry aside, the prince of calling it like it is. My dearest, truest friend. The best writer I know.
Dear reader, if you have sway with the hockey gods or others, now is the time. We are in the third period with this one, but nowhere near ready to hear “one minute, one minute remaining.”