Growing up in Somerville, I had a dear Armenian friend. His name was Ralph Bedrosian and he could do no wrong. He had a body that looked like it was chiseled from granite.
In school, he excelled in all his studies. On the athletic field, he was a dynamo. Name the sport and he would excel. Put him into a baseball game and he’d wallop home runs. One time, he made a diving catch in the outfield with his back to the ball as the crowd rose to its feet.
One time in a basketball game, he scored 50 points with uncanny ease. Whenever we bucked up sides, he was the first one chosen. And his team usually won.
I remember once attending a junior high football game in which he played. Bedrosian took the kickoff in his own end zone and scooted 105 yards for a touchdown, sidestepping defenders like butter on a hot knife. Truth be told, he looked just like Jim Thorpe or Knute Rockne. He put on his shoulder pads and helmet as a gesture to society but he could have scored a touchdown in a top hat and tuxedo.
Bedrosian didn’t play hockey but did run track. In the sprints, the only way you could slow Bedrosian down was with a lasso. He was faster than lightning.
Of course I was envious. Who wouldn’t want to be like Ralph Bedrosian? He could do no wrong. He was the type of kid every youngster aspired to become. All he had to do to get in shape was clip his toenails and make sure his shoes were laced. Talent and desire did the rest.
If you visited his home, you would hear him speaking perfect Armenian. His parents were genocide survivors and instilled in him a passion for heritage and culture. His “odar” friends had the perfect nickname for him. They called him the galloping Armenian because of his speed and agility.
He was a role model. Whenever something went wrong at home, my parents would intercede. “Why can’t you be like Ralph?” they would say. “Look at how wonderful he speaks Armenian. See how good he does in school and in sports. Obviously, chumming around with him hasn’t done you much good.”
Okay, so I was my own entity. I couldn’t be like Ralph even if I tried. Neither could a lot of other kids I knew. People are usually born like that. All the right pieces fell in place.
Come high school graduation, he was recognized as the outstanding student-athlete and the student voted most likely to succeed by his peers. Needless to say, the scholarships came his way. He had his pick of most any school around. Of all the sports, football was his favorite and he showed tremendous prowess in the game.
He would be tearing the gridiron apart over the next four years, perhaps even have a shot at the pros if destiny came his way. I remember attending a party in Bedrosian’s honor and he had a girl in each arm.
In contrast, my life seemed like it was going in reverse. A year of prep school followed. I went out for basketball and made the team—as a manager. I changed my major so many times, I even had myself confused at times.
As the months turned into years, we traveled our separate ways. While I became slowly involved in the Armenian community, Bedrosian was losing touch. He played football in college but things didn’t quite go the way he dreamed.
An injury his sophomore year took its toll. He missed his junior year and by the time he returned as a senior, decay set in. He wasn’t the same player and found himself riding the bench in favor of more promising underclassmen.
Bedrosian wound up marrying an Irish girl. I ventured toward an Armenian. He moved to Florida and opened a restaurant before declaring bankruptcy. His marriage was on the rocks.
The letters I wrote him went unanswered. Even with computers, we couldn’t connect. Our friendship had suddenly hit the skids.
It wasn’t until our 50th high school reunion that our paths crossed once again. I had a hard time recognizing him. He had developed a paunch and was walking around with a cane. He bore a slight limp and appeared a lot older than his 68 years.
“Arthritis,” he said. “An old football injury. I need a knee replacement, maybe two. So what are you doing these days?”
“Climbing mountains and entering racquetball tournaments. The gym is like a second home to me.”
He gave me a look of envy, then replied. “Wish I were you.”
Tom Vartabedian
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