The Day Charlie Taught Me a Lesson

There’s something you need to understand about Charlie.

He didn’t need to prove himself.

He’d served, he’d lived, he’d learned a thing or two. He had this quiet confidence, and while he could certainly dish out a little teasing, he was just as happy to sit back and let somebody else do the talking.

Unfortunately, on one particular afternoon, that somebody was me.

And boy, did I do some talking.

Naomi and I used to enjoy attending Native American powwows. We especially liked the smaller gatherings where things felt a little more personal and relaxed. We’d gotten to know people at some of these gatherings and had been invited to stay overnight in tents. They were beautiful experiences, filled with people, traditions, and memories I still treasure.

Eventually, we began attending a powwow in Tamworth, New Hampshire, with Charlie and some of our friends. It became something of a tradition. Some summers, I believe we went twice.

One particular visit, we were wandering around when we came across a game.

It involved two balls connected by a string. The idea was to toss them toward a rack with several horizontal bars and get the string to catch on one of them.

Now, none of us knew the rules.

But that wasn’t going to stop us.

We looked at the rack and figured getting the balls onto the highest bar must be the hardest. Naturally, that meant it should be worth the most points.

Four points for the top, three for the next, two for the next, one for the bottom, and nothing if you missed.

It seemed perfectly reasonable.

At least to me.

Now, Charlie was in his seventies and I was in my thirties. I’d been athletic for much of my life, and while I knew Charlie had his military training and experience behind him, I figured I had a pretty substantial advantage.

And I wasn’t about to let him forget it.

The girls were already having fun with us, joking about how embarrassing it would be if Charlie beat me.

I wasn’t worried.

Not even a little.

We started playing, and I was good.

Really good.

I was landing those balls on the top bar, sometimes the second one, and almost never missing.

Charlie, meanwhile, was having a different kind of afternoon.

He’d take his turn, carefully aim for the top, and toss.

Clunk.

Bottom bar.

He’d shake it off and try again.

Clunk.

Bottom bar.

Again.

Bottom bar.

I was having the time of my life.

I started teasing him mercilessly. Here I was, this younger athletic fellow, showing the old man how it was done. I might have even flexed a muscle or two.

The girls were laughing, Charlie was playing along, and I was enjoying every minute of my apparent superiority.

We played several rounds, keeping score according to our completely made-up rules, and as far as I was concerned, I was absolutely destroying him.

Charlie just kept landing those balls on the bottom.

Poor old Charlie.

Or so I thought.

At some point, a Native American gentleman participating in the powwow came walking by.

I was feeling pretty confident by then, so naturally I invited him to join us.

I told him I was giving Charlie quite a beating and asked if he’d like to try his luck against me.

He came over and looked at the rack.

There were my balls, proudly hanging near the top, and there were Charlie’s, clustered down at the bottom.

He looked at the rack.

Then he looked at me.

He asked whether I was the one winning.

Oh, absolutely, I assured him. Couldn’t he see? I’d been hitting the top bar all afternoon.

He studied the situation for another moment.

And then he said something that changed everything.

“Typical young man.”

I remember that part particularly well.

He explained that a wise player would be aiming for the bottom bar.

The bottom?

Surely he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

He explained that landing the balls on the bottom bar required greater precision. You couldn’t simply throw high and hope to catch something. Throw too low, and the balls would hit the ground. Throw too high, and they’d catch on one of the upper bars.

The bottom required control.

Accuracy.

Precision.

And suddenly, all those throws Charlie had been making began to look a little different.

I looked at the rack.

I looked at the gentleman.

And then I looked at Charlie.

Oh, no.

If you’ve ever had that moment where you realize the joke is actually on you, you’ll understand what happened next.

Charlie was delighted.

Absolutely delighted.

The man who had spent the afternoon being teased was suddenly the undisputed champion.

And I was the fellow who had been bragging about winning a game I didn’t even understand.

The girls wasted no time.

They immediately switched sides.

Now they were reminding me that I was in my thirties getting beaten by a man in his seventies.

So much for my athletic superiority.

And Charlie?

Well, Charlie was enjoying himself immensely.

He informed me that he’d known all along that the bottom was the target.

Of course he had.

He’d just been letting me think I was winning because, you see, he was humble.

That’s what he told us.

He was simply being humble.

And the more he talked, the harder everyone laughed.

Even the man who’d explained the game seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the reversal.

There I stood, a former champion brought down by one simple explanation.

But there was still one thing left to settle.

Now that we knew how the game was supposed to be played, I wanted another chance.

Surely I could hit that bottom bar.

How hard could it be?

Well, let me tell you, it was hard.

I’d throw and the balls would hit the ground.

I’d adjust, they’d catch too high.

I’d try again.

Ground.

Meanwhile, Charlie kept doing what he’d been doing all afternoon, landing them on the bottom.

And he beat me.

Fair and square.

There was no arguing with it.

The old man had won, and I was never going to hear the end of it.

We laughed about that afternoon for a long time.

It was one of those wonderful moments when nobody was really worried about winning or losing. We were simply friends, enjoying each other’s company, teasing one another, having a marvelous time.

And the lesson wasn’t lost on me either.

I’d assumed that the highest target must be the hardest. I’d assumed that being younger and more athletic gave me an advantage. And I’d been so busy celebrating my supposed victory that I hadn’t stopped to consider whether I actually understood the game in the first place.

Charlie, meanwhile, had quietly been doing just fine.

We returned to that powwow over the years, and the game became part of our visits.

We always had to play.

How could we not?

It had become our game.

And every time it brought back memories of that afternoon.

Eventually Charlie passed away, and as anyone who’s lost a close friend knows, there are certain little things that take on a different meaning afterward.

Things that might seem insignificant to somebody else.

A place.

A familiar road.

A particular joke.

Or a simple game involving two balls connected by a string.

Naomi and I continued going to the powwow, and when we did, we made a point of playing at least one round for Charlie.

I suppose that’s one of the wonderful things about friendship.

Sometimes the memories that stay with us aren’t the grand adventures or the important occasions.

Sometimes they’re the afternoons when everybody laughed so hard nobody wanted the moment to end.

I can still picture Charlie standing there, watching me discover that I wasn’t nearly as clever as I’d thought.

I can still imagine that look of satisfaction on his face.

And I can still hear him explaining that he’d known the rules all along.

He was just being humble.

Of course he was.

And if Charlie were standing beside me today, watching me miss that bottom bar again, I know exactly what he’d be doing.

Laughing.

And I’d be laughing right along with him.

Because in the end, the best thing I won that afternoon wasn’t a game.

It was another memory with a friend I loved.

And that’s worth more than all the points in the world.