The Circle Game

And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return, we can only look
Behind, from where we came
And go round and round and round, in the circle game

                                                        -- Joni Mitchell

My longtime good friend Wayne Cox died yesterday. We knew the end was near but the news is hard to take. We talked less than a week ago by phone. He kept in touch with many people. I'm sure he made them feel as special and important as he did me. That was Wayne. I grieve his loss.

One reason he called is because he wanted me to hear the voice of a mutual friend from the past, Dennis Shaw, whom we played sports with as kids. Wayne's gesture was genuine love. It was a gift to Dennis and me. Wayne loved it. This was how he spent his final days, joining people together. 

His interests were many, from sports to world affairs to ballet. Two of his three daughters are dancers. 

Wayne made a point to be well-informed.

"There's nothing like having a cup of coffee and reading The Economist," he said about the simple pleasures of his final months. Which also included watching sports events on the flat screen and analyzing strategies and coaching decisions.

He was a helluva guy. There's so much to say about him, I could go on and on. I want to reduce it to a couple of stories, then listen to how others remember him.

When Wayne first became a dentist, following his graduation from the Dental School at USC, he wanted to live near the beach. I don't know where he first started practicing dentistry but he took residence in Manhattan Beach, then known for its lively parties and casual lifestyle. He figured this would be a good place to establish permanent residence, at least for the time being.

As with so much of his life, Wayne knew exactly what he wanted. For example, he knew from at least his sophomore year in high school that he was going to be a dentist.

"I want to be a dentist," he said. I wanted to be a dentist, too, but, well, maybe I'll be something else. He knew.

Rent was high in Manhattan Beach and owning a place would take some serious bank. But Wayne had a plan, a well-thought out strategy. Rather than waste his newly earned income from dentistry on rent, he would buy a house in Manhattan Beaches, invest in property.

He would do that by living at the beach and not paying rent, so he could save his earnings to buy a place.

How do you do that? 

Single guy. Bright future. What the heck! Purchase a Volkswagen bus to live in. Park said bus in the Lifeguard parking lot next to the Strand between 26th and 27th streets (currently part of Bruce's Beach). No one's going to notice. I'm sure he worked a deal with the Lifeguard authorities. He was a dentist and a rugby jock. Not a bum.

After two years of filling cavities and sleeping in the parking lot, he had saved enough to go in with a partner on a property two doors from the iconic beach Strand. That place should be worth about $10 mil today. 

The rest is history. He eventually circled back to his hometown of Claremont where he found a sweet original Craftsman house to make his home, with a big front porch to share with his friends. He made his own stained glass, including a beautiful rendering of nearby Mt. Baldy that served as his front door window.

He became his hometown dentist, and his hometown coach. He coached the Claremont Colleges rugby team, which gave him a chance to travel and see other parts of the world.

We reconnected about six years ago for a high school reunion. It was multi-class, held in Claremont and there were only five guys present from our class of '65: Danny Roelle, Pat Kady, Bill O'Hara, Wayne and me. Bill died about a year ago, a joke-filled lovable man who lived to party.

Wayne invited me to stay at his place that night, which I did. We chatted into the wee hours, sipping wine and reminiscing. Earlier that day, we began our reunion together on his front porch. I love front porches and I'm positive Wayne considered his a sanctuary for contemplation and hanging with his daughters and many friends.

Our final moments together in the flesh were spent on that porch last October. He knew he had fourth stage cancer that was eating the bones in his legs. Since then, we talked frequently on the phone. He never complained. He remained upbeat. We discussed politics, having daughters, sports, philosophy, religion, you name it. I cherish those moments with my savvy good buddy, especially seeing him that beautiful autumn day on his front porch.

Most people knew Wayne as Wally, a nickname he picked up after high school. He was Wayne to me and it was hard for me to say, Wally. I asked him about it and he said, "Yeah, some people call me Wayne and others Wally. It depends." 

"When we hung out at your house during high school, your mom called you Guy?” I said.

"My dad's name was Wayne,” he said. “I was the little guy. She called me Guy.”

He solved that mystery, which played in the back of my mind for more than 60 years.

In between Guy and Wayne, there was a period when Wayne was known as Weenie.

This was because he was physically small, a late bloomer, before he developed into a formidable athlete. We're talking olden days of elementary school rivalries: St. Joe’s vs. Our Lady of Assumption (OLA). Pomona versus Claremont. 

Wayne resurrected those days and those kids for me, including Dennis Shaw, Dick Morgan, Ron Snyder, Vince Carpio and of course my closest friend, Paul Greene. Despite our separate ways we all seemed to keep one thing in common. We remained friends with Wayne, or Wally or Weenie, the little guy with the big heart.

Well played, Wayne.