I took the high road, but COVID dragged me down the low road

Life has a way of keeping us on an even keel. Every high seems to be followed by a low.

     Or as Eileen Holleran warned, “It’s a long road that doesn’t have a turn in it.’’ Translation – life would be monotonous without change. Don’t get too high on yourself or so low that you pity yourself; circumstances are bound to change.

  That brings us to St. Patrick’s Day Weekend 2023. Our first party in four years was trumped only by the laughter of the after-party in our kitchen. It was the highest of highs with my newsroom buddies of 40 years ago. Within two days, my low struck; I tumbled into the throes of COVID-19.

    If only in my memory, the spirit of my mother, Florence (Nightingale) of the St. Lawrence, was nodding and mouthing, “I told you so.’’

    Florence would have appreciated our discretion in not hosting the party. When the COVID pandemic began to shut down the country  around March 15, 2020, Mary and I realized it would be irresponsible to host a potential superspreader. Same deal the next year. We did attempt St. Patrick’s Day in July 2021, but got socked with 2 inches of rain.

   This year conditions seemed right when Paddy’s Day landed on a Friday. We moved the party to the lodge down the street, cooked 40 pounds of corned beef, showed NCAA basketball games, set up a coloring table in one corner and beverages across the room. It was kid-friendly and adult-oriented, and the blarney flowed. 116 guests — not bad.

    It was heightened by a surprise visit from former housemate Tom and his wife Mary Beth from Cleveland. The Brecks drove 5 hours and transported us 40 years back in time to our first newsroom jobs and our rented farmhouse – the Sperry Dairy.

   My buddy in the Irish mafia, Malloy, surveyed the lodge and couldn’t resist the jab.

  “Nice superspreader,’’ he laughed.  But I didn’t see him leaving anytime soon.

   When the floor was swept and the lodge buttoned up, we headed home with a handful of friends and two former housemates. I wished we had videotaped the chatter.

    First, there was a toast to Mark “Dizzy’’ Gillispie, who had passed this winter from cancer. The solemnity was lightened by the retelling of neophyte golfer Mark tromping through the meadow next to our farmhouse, lashing 9-irons amid the cow and horse dung in the gloaming, then walking through the house with the crap flaking off his loafers. We roared. Sadly, he wasn’t with us to defend himself.

Tom Breckenridge, Leo Roth, Jim Holleran and Mark Gillispie were housemates and reporters for the The News-Herald in Lake County, Ohio, in the early 1980s. They reunited at the 2016 World Series in Cleveland.

   We reminisced about the time Leo got dinged for wearing the unmistakable 50-gallon sponge rubber hat. The police noticed it on Friday night when they shut down our party. The next night, at a noisy gathering across town, the bar patrol arrived again to spy Leo and his hat. One of the officers groused audibly, “It’s the same (obscene gerund omitted) guys.’’ We laughed harder.

   Tom succeeded a guy best described as a Beaver Cleaver clone. When Beaver bolted for Buffalo, Tom was a natural fit, and we coveted his furniture – a folding lawn chair (money was tight!). But I still have not forgiven Tom for bringing home the cat, which we derisively named Beaver. The feline furball had the run of the house and never met a litter box he liked. Beaver opted for the plastic laundry bags beneath my bed until the odor overpowered me. When I checked under the bed, it looked like the refuse pile at the local SPCA.

  Tom dubbed the evening “hernia-inducing laughter.’’ He should have been a writer. Wait, he had been.

   By Monday, three days after our party, I felt weary with a scratchy throat, but remained focused on that night’s lacrosse game, the first assigned scrimmage of the season. I figured it was an honor. By the time I got home, that high was eviscerated from two hours of non-stop running. As my adrenaline slowed, I melted into exhaustion and could barely walk. Something was wrong. A COVID test came up negative, but the packaging showed the kit was expired.

    I took myself out of Tuesday’s 6 a.m. basketball doubleheader, even though I had left our last session on a high, the product of sinking a game-winning three-pointer. If you don’t think our egos are serious about these morning full-court games, we keep a spreadsheet and taunt each other about our record (25-19 this year). Another low arrived once I found a fresh text kit. The two bars turned bright red. Positive.

   One of the first guys I texted was Malloy, who was preparing to visit his 1-year-old grandson. “Mr. Superspreader!’’ he replied, then tempered it with, “Take care of yourself.’’

   Darn, all that masking, all the precautions for three years. I even took a year off from reffing basketball when a doctor asked, “Do you trust teen-aged boys and girls with your health?’’ Enough said.

   When you’re really sick, when every joint aches, when you can’t stop sneezing and coughing, when all you want to do is sleep, your mind plays tricks on you. Conversations sound faint but resemble an echo chamber. Or your mind wanders to weird scenarios. I had a premonition about my gravestone. The inscription will state:

JAMES HOLLERAN
1957-2023
“IT’S TRUE …
WHITE MEN
CAN’T JUMP.’’

   The telling exchange occurred during a tele-medicine visit with my doctor, Sylvia Park. First, I called her Linda (local author), then Grace (actress).

   She warned: “You’re going to be forgetful, maybe even dopey for a few days.’’