“We’ve been friends now for so many years. We’ve been together through the good times and the tears. Turned each other on to the good things that life has to give.
“We drift apart for a little bit of a spell. One night i get a call and i know that you’re well and days i was down you would help me get out of my hole.”
— BRIAN WILSON
I first met Pancho at the neighborhood swimming pool in the summer of 1965.
That wasn’t his name, although he would answer to various incarnations of it for the next three years or so.
Pancho, Panch, Peench, Pinch, Punch, Poncho, Peench the Weench …
His actual name was Keith, although he gave himself the name Mickey. He was three years younger than I was, but we became good friends because we both loved baseball. We played on the neighborhood equivalent of a sandlot and when it rained, we played Strat-O-Matic in a friend’s basement.
The kid who gave him the nickname moved to Israel. He had been my closest friend for a year, but I never saw him again.
Pancho has been my closest friend going on 58 years.
We’ve been together through the good times and the tears. He stood for me at both of my weddings, I went to court with him when his finances fell apart.
As friendships age, tears become more and more frequent. Six years ago, Pancho and I buried a mutual friend. A little more than two years later, he lost his wife.
This week he learned that the pacemaker he’s had in his chest for more than 20 years has been degraded in such a way that it’s causing a life-threatening infection. He’ll undergo surgery later this week — major surgery that takes 6-8 hours — and if all goes well, he’ll resume his daily life.
I’m hoping he’ll have lots of years left. For one thing, his kids are way too young to lose both their parents.
For another, I might be 72, but I’m not ready to say goodbye to any more friends.
Especially Pancho.