Baseball should not be played one-on-one yet Robbie and I did just that everyday for three summers in a row. It started with a tennis ball in our back yard until Robbie got a hardball for his birthday and we moved the game to an empty lot across the street from the McCloud girls' house.

Robbie followed the Yankees and his starting lineup went Willie Randolph, Mickey Rivers, Nettles and Jackson. I countered with Lou Whitaker, Ron Leflore, Steve Kemp, and Lance Parrish. It bothered Robbie that my lowly Tigers usually would beat his might Yankees, notwithstanding my advantage being seven-years-old to his six.

As baseball season waned and school started back up, Robbie's Pittsburgh Steelers faced down my Detroit Lions in two-man tackle football. We found our games limited to the daylight between school and dinner, and every other weekend when he wasn't visiting his real mom or taking care of his stepbrother.

I remember clearly the dreary week in early summer 1980 when my family moved to Michigan's Upper Peninsula. It snowed on June 6th. Our rented house hid behind a pine stand atop a steep hill about two miles from town. I spent most of my time exploring the nearby woods on my own or listening to Casey Casem's Weekly Top 40 recorded on my cassette tapes. I'd have to say it was my loneliest summer.

Probably around mid-July or August, Mom took me with her to ShopKo to get me out of the house. I found the Sports aisle and was inspecting a soccer ball pump when I noticed a kid at the other end spinning a basketball on his finger. It looked like Robbie! The thing was, his dad and stepmom moved away about a year before we left for the U.P. He had grown and I just couldn't be sure it was him.

I told my Mom, hey, I think I see Robbie. Her eyes opened wide and she shout-whispered, "Where?" I led her to the Sports aisle but Robbie was gone. She peeked around the endcap and then grabbed my shirt by the shoulder and whisked me out of the store to our Ford Econoline. She peeled out of the parking lot and headed straight to the State Police Post.

"What's going on, Mom?"

"She took him!" she said. "I never told you...maybe they are going to Canada!"

She explained to the desk sergeant what we had seen and he dispatched a trooper, but by the time he arrived they had gone. Mom called Robbie's dad to report the sighting. She said he sounded encouraged.

I'm married now and have a son who is about the age Robbie was when I last saw him in the Shopko. My previous marriage ended in divorce and jealousy kept me from seeing my daughters as much as I would have liked. In all the places I've moved for work, I've never made a real best friend. I miss Robbie.

The year was 1989. I don't remember her name. I used to have a photo. A blond, she used to hang around two college buddies of mine who were amateur bodybuilders. She may have dated one or both, but I don't remember that either.

Somehow I overcame my usual shyness to ask her out on a date. Back then, we asked our agents to contact the other's agent via phone or in-person. Just kidding...no one had agents. Anyway, we agreed to go to a chain restaurant nearby the school. Unfortunately, I don't remember the name of the restaurant either, but I recall the servers wearing "flair."

She looked nice and seemed pleasant when I picked her up. We enjoyed a friendly conversation over iced tea (or maybe sodas). Everything progressed as a first date should. The waiter came and took our order. I'll have the vegetarian pasta, she said, with decisiveness and grace.

"I'll have the Monterrey Chicken with baked potato," I said when it was my turn. The waiter thanked us, snapped shut his order pad, and turned toward the kitchen. I looked back at my date as she moved at an equally fast pace toward the exit.

I ate my chicken and asked for a takeaway box for the pasta.

Perplexed, I told the story to one of the bodybuilders. "Ha, didn't we tell you? She's the local PETA chapter president!" I would have called to apologize...but I was chicken.

The freedom to drink, drug and chase wild lusts is the freedom to don your own chains.

What would you not touch, if every touch brought you closer to the flame?

Would you swaddle your tender baby, if she sees it makes you wince?

Would you caress your lover with hands sheathed in grit?

Can you scribble "Congratulations!" large enough to cover the blood?

A real man works with his hands; a gentleman holds the door. Where is your strength and how do these tiny cuts enfeeble he who wrestled monsters, the one who bore us on his shoulders?

What corruption did you let in? Were these hands ever clean?

Do they hate you back?