Dead Wrong

    Our bald coach friend, Ed, and our almost bald coach friend, Greg, have spent years and years on various ball fields and in countless classrooms in Oregon.  Their network of former players and students extends to the point that no matter where we all go together, they are approached by someone who used to play for them or was a former student or both.  And, on the rare occasion when no one approaches, they introduce themselves and make instant friends with the people around us whether we are sharing a bus ride, a plane seat, a meal at a restaurant or just hanging at the beach.  That beach could be on either coast or even in another country.  They have friends everywhere.
     One of their friends was Flying Biff Childers who coached football and baseball with them for a number of years.  They never found out why he was called Flying Biff but they've had lots of fun trying to imagine why.  Maybe the reason they never found out was because Biff was one of those guys who kept his personal life away from the practice field. He didn't really say anything revealing even when the coaches had their after game celebrations at the local bar.  Here they reviewed every play of the game two or three times and pledged eternal  allegiance to one another in the traditional male way of raising glasses and pounding each other on the back harder and harder as the night wore on.
     So they were especially saddened to read the short obituary of their old coaching pal, Biff, in the paper not too many weeks ago. Typical of Biff, there was little personal information other than his birth and death date and the announcement of the funeral day and time. Elbows on the kitchen counter, Ed and Greg reminisced about ol' Biff and traded stories about good plays and good games they'd shared with him. Finally, they decided to attend his funeral and would bring along a decent supply of beer which  could be poured onto or maybe even into the casket and the rest could be consumed with an appropriate audience. They'd decide who that audience was once they'd had the opportunity to study the response to their impromptu funeral remarks about what a good ol' boy Biff was.
     They set out in Ed's pick-up early on the day of the funeral.  The 18 cans of assorted brands of beer was handily stashed in the back where they could get to it easily or throw a blue tarp over it if the funeral attendees seemed a little sketchy about drinking with strangers. It would take several hours to get far enough up the Gorge to get even sort of close to the funeral site.  Even at that, they'd need to wheel south several miles before they got to the actual cemetery. So they pleasantly entertained each other with yet more reviews of past games, a few loudly sung renditions of some favorite country songs, and the re-telling of some of their favorite jokes.
     Ed suddenly grew seriously silent and pulled the pick-up onto the dusty side of the now Eastern Oregon road.
     "Greg,"  he started, " what if there's more than one Biff Childers in Oregon? "
     "Why didn't we think of that?  I don't get it.  We're smarter than that, aren't we?" responded Greg.
     Several quiet moments passed.  Ed decided to call his wife and Greg decided to call his daughter. When they compared notes, they discovered that Biff Childers was, in fact, one of two residents in Oregon.  Oh hell, they'd come this far, they'd go to the funeral anyway. There was still a 50/50 chance that this funeral was for Flying Biff.  They stopped one more time at a Les Schwab in a town only a little smaller than Mayberry to ask for directions.  The attendant wasn't very friendly.  Greg didn't like that.  Les Schwab's employees were supposed to be running out to them with energetic smiles on their faces.  He might turn this guy in even if he did give good directions.
     Once they found the right place, they spotted the tent covered casket on the side of a hot, wind-blown hill. They wondered where everybody was until they spotted a group of black clad folks gathered down the hill a little ways.  They parked the pick-up and got out to join the group. They were greeted with an awkward silence.  Then a scowling woman walked slowly up to Ed staring at him intently.
     "Coach Ed?  Aren't you Coach Ed? You are! Remember the time when the English teacher died and you took over our class for the rest of the term?  Sure you do.  And just WHY did you give me an F for the quarter?! she wanted to know.
     Another woman walked up to Greg holding out her hand and grasping his firmly when she got to him.
     "And you're Coach Greg! I never got a chance to thank you for the help you gave my son in your reading class.  You have no idea how much that helped!  I finally have a chance to give you a proper thanks!"
     And so it went. They made friendly connections with the two women and were introduced to other folks who knew them by reputation as fans in the stadium. They told their stories about their own Biff Childers, poured some beer into the hole of the casket with permission, then asked the group to join them at the back of the pick-up where they cracked open the Olys, Pabsts, and Hamms that they'd assembled earlier in the day. Toasts were made to both Biffs and the two coaches had yet another chance to tell some of their game stories to a  group of  new friends who'd never heard any of them. The life of Flying Biff was appropriately celebrated and he would become a star character in future stories about players and coaches in the not too distant past. After declining the invitation to continue the celebration at the local bar, Ed and Greg drove back home going over the unforgettable events of the day and rehearsing the story they'd tell about it.