Doc was one of Steve's closest friends not in the family. Being Italian, a friend not in the family quickly becomes family. Doc was what I would call "a brother from another mother". In light of this father's day posting maybe it should be "a brother from another father".
When Steve died, I mistakenly phoned Doc after midnight. I had no idea of the time, being entirely out of my mind with shock and grief. All I felt was a desperation to get a hold of those who loved Steve and was loved by Steve. I can't imagine waking from a deep sleep to take that call. But Mike took that call, stayed calm and made some additional calls on my behalf. He stood tall exactly where Steve would have for him had the tables been reversed.
About a year later, Mike came to Richmond for work. He took me out to one of Steve's favorite restaurants. A place Steve and I always took out of town visitors or to celebrate special occasions. And while we spoke of Steve now and again, mostly we spoke of mundane every day topics. We were both trying to stand tall in Steve's place for each other, making an awkward mess of it in the process.
I haven't seen or heard from Doc since that dinner. I sent him the lucite encased Super Bowl ticket which Steve saved these many years. While I had heard the stories written below many times, I knew Steve would have wanted Mike to have the heft of those shared memories. Something to hold in hand of the times they shared with pride.
I wish I could do that for each and every person Steve held dear in his life.
June 19, 2010
June 20th is my best friend not named Karen’s birthday. When I
was in High School and for many years thereafter Mike Lozano and I
shared many an adventure as we grew from 14 year old boys into the first
incarnations of the men we are today.
Mike and I met in
sophomore year at Archbishop Molloy, in the fall of 1977. I don’t know
how we avoided each other for freshman year, we were on the same
academic track, but needless to say when we finally met we became good
friends. Mike was always a little smarter than me. He worked a little
harder and got better grades. I was more of the “disassociated artist’
type. I never studied, never worked, and got passing grades much to my
parent’s consternation (they had this “valedictorian or bust” attitude
that I still don’t quite get. Once, my dad beat the snot out me for
bringing home an 86 average)
Our friendship however really took
off in college when we both discovered bars. This was more of a bad
thing for me than Mike, who as I mentioned was always a little smarter
than me. Doc as we now called him knew when to party and knew when to
study. I on the other hand (who Doc now called “Wildman”) knew
absolutely nothing about when to study. All the time was a good time to
party, and being at NYU in the heart of Greenwich Village during the
post-punk new wave era was probably not the most conducive environment
for focusing on my academics. By 1983 I dropped out.
Doc
finished Syracuse University in 2.5 years (OK, he was A LOT smarter than
me), took a half a semester off, and started Mt. Sinai medical school
while I had gotten some steady work in various mailrooms around the
city. We still partied and drank, and for several years I was proud to
subsidize our good times. Doc became an ER Doctor and married a
beautiful woman named Tania, who I might add is smarter than the two of
us (Tania went to Yale and is an Endocrinologist). For a while they
lived in New York but eventually they moved to Tampa where they live
today.
I wish I could tell you all of the stories and adventures
we shared, but I can’t. One of the conditions of sobriety is to walk
away from the people, places, and things that you knew when you drank
and most of my stories about Doc start off “So one night Doc and I were
out drinking…”. I can’t tell those stories any more, but there is one
story I can tell...
Doc is one of the most decisive, intelligent
people you will ever meet, but when it came to picking his favorite
football team he couldn’t. I always thought he was a Jets fan, but when
he moved to Tampa he became a Bucs fan, and when I questioned this his
reply was something along the lines of “I really don’t have a favorite
football team”.
Hmmm.
So I told him about the Green Bay
Packers. Here’s a football team that was made for the Doc. They have a
rich history. They are successful. They are owned by the people of
Green Bay. Green Bay is about as different from New York City as
different can be. Within days Doc was coming back to me with facts that I
didn’t know (did I mention he’s somewhere between a little and a lot
smarter than me?) “Did you know that if the team gets sold, all of the
proceeds have to go to the local American Legion Post??” he gleefully
exclaimed in one phone call. It didn’t hurt that we had Brett Favre on
the team, and this was 1995 Brett Favre, so Doc became a Packers fan.
And the next year they went to the Super Bowl and so did we.
When the Packers made it to Super Bowl XXXI Doc immediately called and said “We’re going”.
“But I can’t afford it” I said.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it” said Doc.
“But I’ll never be able to pay you back”.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got it” said Doc
“I have to pay you back”.
“Don’t
worry, I’ve got it. It’s my way of saying thanks” said Doc, at this
point getting annoyed. “Look, I’ve always wanted to be able to do this
for my friends”, and that I understood. We came from the same place, me
and the Doc, and he had made it out.
Doc took me to the Super
Bowl in New Orleans and we watched Brett Favre win his only
championship. That was a dream come true, and I have the ticket stub to
prove it.
If I’ve never said thank you as I should have for that adventure then please allow me to do it now.
Thank you Mike.
A
lot has changed since that day in 1996. I started changing my drinking
habits, and Doc went on with his life. We grown apart over time and
distance, but never so far that one can’t pick up the phone any day and
call the other. Oh, and when I got married Doc and his family were
there. He and Tania and their children Jackie and Vickie (who is my
godchild) made the trip to Vegas. Jackie and Vickie stood as our flower
girls and bowled with us in celebration that afternoon.
There’s a
lot for me to think about today. I thought about writing about my Dad,
but I think about him enough, and he knows how much I love him even if
he did beat the snot out of me for bringing home an 86 average. Also?
I’m tired of reflecting on the dead for now. This world is for the
living. Here’s to the Doc, husband, father, and my friend always. Happy
Fathers Day!
PS…
I can’t post this without wishing a happy
Fathers Day to Miguel Lozano, Sr., who is Doc’s dad and was always a
second dad to me. Mr. Lozano is a typical Puerto Rican man: he is strong
and proud and of few words. When I met Mr. Lozano in 1977 our
conversations would go like this:
Steve: Hi Mr. Lozano.
Mr. Lozano: >
It
was the strangest noise I’d ever heard. In the first three years I knew
him, the only actual words he ever said to me were this one time when
he said: “Move your car”. I had no idea why he wanted me to move my car,
nor did I think there was anything wrong with where I parked it, but I
was ready to move it to the cemetery out back just so he wouldn’t have
to see it ever again. I don’t think I ever moved so fast in my life.
Anyway, three years of this goes on and one day we are sitting on his
living room couch together watching a Mets game and all of a sudden I
hear this voice go “Jorgensen.” I looked around wondering where it had
came from but I really had no idea. Then I heard “Jorgensen. He’s good.
Strong”
It was Mr. Lozano.
I looked around again to see
who he was speaking to, but there was no one around. Then it dawned on
me: he was talking to me. I remember thinking “Holy crap, he wants to
have a conversation. Now what”? You know those old western movies, the
way the Indians would talk? That was me. “Yes. Jorgensen. Good. Strong.
Power hitter”.
It was Mr. Lozano’s way of letting me know I passed the test.
Happy Fathers day Dad. Give Mom and big hug and kiss from her wayward son.
