Brem

When I was just a sprout, back when middle school was "junior high," I had a friend called Brem who, among other things, was Bill Medley to my Bobby Hatfield. That's right, aging Boomers and guilty oldies radio listeners, the Righteous Brothers. We would belt out their hits, to the annoyance of our teammates, in the shower room at Blue Collar Junior High in Westside, Michigan, after practice for whatever sport was in season - football (halfback/quarterback), basketball (forward/guard), track (high jumper/half-miler). We both wore blue and gold letter jackets with a B on the front, even though there was no varsity club in junior high school. In the summer we played softball (left field/second base) in the rec. league. We knew the same girls (cheerleaders, natch), rode our bikes with the same gang of budding delinquents, and we both had Mr. Gutman for social studies.

You may recall Mr. Gutman from a previous post - a memorable and influential teacher who loved his work. Well, it was my phone conversation with Mr. Gutman that prompted a long-shot subscription to classmates.com that, lo and behold and saints be praised, landed a hit. Brem was listed, and he answered my e-mail. Tentatively at first, probably wondering if I was selling insurance or looking for a date or a loan. The last time I saw him was the summer I transferred to Michigan, when I was still excited about college, and he was not. I remember him talking about taking the police academy entrance exam, and I thought, oh no.

So, 34 years later, I get a blast from the past from the desk of Sgt. Jack Bremenhoffer (name changed to protect me), Crime Scene Unit, Westside Police Department. We exchanged a few brief catch-up notes. Brief by my verbose standards, anyway. My first one ran nine paragraphs: school here, school there, moved here, moved there, met Gven, two kids, taught here, taught there, moved to the suburbs, edit textbooks. His self-disclosures, while less wordy, have been poignant. All-league in football, no scholarships; went to NMU, learned how to drink, not to study; took the civil service test and the job; had a great time single, met wife at work; played softball until this year, shoulder surgery, knee surgery, osteoarthritis, two kids, college to pay for. The next exchange told me about the mutual friend (and best man at his wedding) who moved to Chicago, the one who got heavily into drugs, and the one who came back from Vietnam and joined the Zulus motorcycle club. I remember him riding his brother's 650 Triumph around their back yard when he wasn't on his ten-speed.

Which brought it all back to where I started. My call to Mr. Gutman had been prompted by a question in my Wednesday night men's group about mentors, and Brem's back-story addressed another men's group question about street gangs, prompted by a Dispatch column wherein "Teenagers join gangs because it gives them a sense of belonging and group identity....They feel they belong because they share the excitement, symbols and rituals of the gange, are accepted as insiders and believe they really care for each other." Something resonated.

Forgive me, Brem, if you'd rather I didn't disclose all this, but we did have kind of a gang mentality - tame and suburban, but in the same spirit. And we all went our separate ways, so I won't be surprised if Sgt. Bremenhoffer doesn't become a constant e-mail correspondent. But I also wonder whether a beer and a ballgame would bridge at least some of those changes. Not sure.