I've known Bill since I was 24 and he was 48. How I'm 43 and he's 66.
We've played many hundreds of rounds of golf together and driven thousands of miles to those golf courses, because we like to play in the country—and talk a lot in the car.
On a heartbreakingly perfect summer day Friday, we went around twice at our very favorite course in the world, the nine-hole Pine Hills, in Ottawa, Ill.
And on the way back—for all two hours—Bill read aloud the Robert Caro biography of Lyndon Johnson—mostly the scene on Air Force One in Dallas on Nov. 22, 1963—and we each fought back tears at many points and roared laughing at others.
Now, it's a really good fucking book, but ...
They say you find out who your friends are in tragedy.
You can idenitfy them in joy, too—the peculiar joy you feel when you know you are the only two nuts in the country that consider this the perfect way to spend a perfect day.
You were weirdos to begin with, you acknowledge. But through twenty years of communication, you've made each other even weirder—and in exactly the same direction.
And that's where a measure of pride begins to creep in.