I saw him up ahead in the fading light of an early December evening -- an older gentleman was waiting at his mailbox.
Informed by no more than my one year's experience as a mail carrier, I suspected that he was most likely impatiently waiting for his tardy newspaper. So I braced myself, prepared to apologize for my (and his paper's) late arrival.
But (to my surprise) he wasn't waiting for me in order to complain about his late newspaper. Not at all. He merely wanted to ask if I might put his mail on hold over the coming weekend. He was taking a trip to Indianapolis and wanted his mail held.
"Sure. I can do that" I told him.
But upon my answering, rather than simply walking away satisfied, he settled in. He put both gloved hands on the sill of my rolled down LLV window, sort of leaned in, and asked "What's your name?"
It was obvious to him that I wasn't the route regular. I'm a sub.
I told him my name which only led to more questions, ultimately leading to him to connect some dots and to come up with a common place in our history...
...it turns out that he probably refereed some of my games when I was playing sports at the local college.
He then told me that soccer was in such infancy in Indiana at the time that there were no certified referees for the college games.
He laughingly told me that he and a friend of his with whom he regularly refereed local basketball games therefore decided that they would read up on the rules of the sport -- even though neither had ever seen a soccer match, much less played the sport-- and take the test to become certified soccer referees.
He went on to explain that his friend and he soon determined that in their ignorance of the game, their most used "call" would be "PLAY ON!" -- a call that essentially means "no call", and means just what it says: Play on! The hand signal for "PLAY ON" is a raised fist.
He talked to me for a minute or two more -- mostly (to my surprise) praising me for my late-in-the-day diligence in finishing with the mail delivery. Then, as he took a step back from my LLV, he raised a fist to the air and said, "PLAY ON!"
I smiled and drove off to the next mailbox.
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About an hour later, now driving my LLV in complete winter darkness, there was (again) an older gentleman up ahead standing by his mailbox. Waiting.
I suspected that he was most likely impatiently waiting for his tardy newspaper. It was now nighttime. So I braced myself, prepared to apologize for my (and his paper's) late arrival.
But it wasn't that at all. He wasn't there to scold me at all. In fact, he quite sympathetically said "You're sure working late. I'll bet this isn't the only route you've had to run today, is it?" (he was right).
As I handed him his mail and his newspaper, he raised his hand and pointed up and down his street and continued, "....I want you to know that every one of us in this neighborhood is cheering for you. Bravo, and good work!"
I drove off to the next mailbox. My heart bouyed.
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One more half hour later in total December darkness I pulled up the 1/4 mile long gravel driveway. I had a parcel to deliver that wouldn't fit in the mailbox.
When I am not in my LLV, I run. I don't walk. Anywhere. I run parcels to front doors, porches, and garages. And in that December darkness I was doing just that -- running the box to the front porch.
But as I turned around and started running back to my LLV, a young man I hadn't before noticed stepped out of the shadow of his barn and around his pickup truck. Upon seeing me, he flashed a big full-toothed, ear to ear smile, and in one motion rushed over to me to give me a high five and shouted "GO MAN, GO!"
All in all, it was a pretty good pre-Christmas December day that day.
