The organizers decided to call it a non event because it was not authorized by school authorities. That’s the official reason. My take is what else would a gathering of old geezers be called. Non event fits the occasion perfectly.
I was never actively involved with too many of my classmates. We lived in parallel universes. Many of my classmates were the sons of prominent attorneys and other professionals. For the most part, most were OK sorts, but i didn't really connect with them on a day to day basis but that’s another story.
I attended our 50th reunion and let me tell you, that was an experience. There were a number of guys from this all male school who resembled no one I swore I had ever laid eyes on before.
The skinny guys of my youth were now fat. Fat guys skinny. Handsome somehow turned ugly. Hairy guys went bald and some of the least likely shy and unsocial types turned into interesting fun men who i could spend time talking and listening to.
There were a couple of classmates, or so they claimed who I did not recognize, even when they put on their name tags. They had changed beyond belief. Guys you felt sure would end upon the receiving line of a soup kitchen somehow found their way and had risen to seemingly impossible heights. A few trust account kids managed to keep up the lifestyle into which they were born.
There were a couple of men who attended in wheel chairs, one with a caretaker. This all presented itself in a relatively small group of 50 or so graduates out of the total of 150 or so graduates.
One guy I who I was relatively close to had been a gifted athlete. He was the epitome of what you would expect a fullback to be, a powerfully built 6’ Italian kid with the power of a team of horses. He had earned regional recognition at his fullback position. Now 5 decades later, he sat in his wheelchair bent and crippled by the effects of MS. His spirit was strong but he could barely make himself understood. It was good to see him.
The format for this reunion was a golf outing. We chose teams based on handicaps that we had provided in advance. My handicaps took up two full pages. We played 18 holes and I made only one contribution to our team victory score, a lucky 7 iron shot that somehow got lost in the hole for a bird on a long par 5. My team somehow won the match on the talent of my team mate.. The bet was for $25 per man.
I was to collect from one of the guys whose family money went back more than a couple generations. He was always a cocky bragard, whose main way of attracting friends and girls was money. When the time to pay off the team bet arrived, he pulled me aside and told me that he had left his money in his locker and would pay up over a drink in the men’s lounge. As our foursome sat at a table in the clubhouse enjoying a pitcher, guess who never showed up to pay off his big bet. Yep, I thought this was a funny story, but that’s just me. The joke was on me.
I miss my 25 bucks. Maybe my friend is waiting for a rematch at his club. I’ve always thought I might enjoy playing at Oakland Hills. I’ve been waiting for the phone call for seven years.