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I was entrusted with a big responsibility about four years ago. A long-time friend came into the office, and I gladly put away the paperwork I had been trudging through as I waited for him to pick up where we’d left off the last time we chatted.
Instead of grabbing a seat, he adjusted his glasses as he leaned his aging frame against the back of the leather chair in front of my desk.
I could tell by his stance this wasn’t going to be the usual 5-10 minute session about the last Cedar Catholic basketball game or a deep dive into the team’s upcoming foes.
No, this conversation would be different. Joe would usually walk to the front counter of our office, and peek his head around the corner to see if I was in. It wouldn’t be long and he’d be sitting in the chair across from my desk, waving his arms in the air as he talked in his animated fashion. We’d dissect Bob Geary’s latest win, Matt Steffen’s new lineup or the 3-point shot that stole a victory from his beloved Cedar Catholic Trojans.
Sometimes he’d ask me to find out more about an up-and-coming athlete from Boone Central or Pierce, or find out why a certain coach had left.
None of that was on the agenda this day. This time, Joe was on a mission. His health hadn’t been the best lately — a revelation that I was stunned to hear. It wasn’t surprising that a man in his early 90s would be facing health issues. It did surprise me, though, that he had finally cracked open the door into his inner circle and began to talk openly about himself, and not the latest game or rising star on the local football field or basketball court.
Joe wasn’t the type to willingly let a lot of folks into his inner sanctum. That was his business, no one else’s.
He didn’t talk about his long military career, galavanting all over the world for his country. He didn’t talk about his career in sales. He didn’t talk about his love for poetry or his entrepreneurial skills.
Nope. I, like most of the folks in Hartington, knew Joe Hish as a high school super fan. It didn’t matter if the Wildcats or Trojans were playing, he’d show up at a local game and cheer like there was no tomorrow. It never took long, and the rest of the crowd was cheering right along with him.
Even when he decided it was time to stop driving to the away games, another fan would often offer him a ride so he could be front and center among the action. Cheering on the team with megaphone in hand, working up a sweat as he tried to fire up the fans.
That’s how most people remember Joe Hish and that’s how he liked it. That’s why I only knew about a small piece of his life. The part where he had retired from highly successful military and corporate careers and had moved back to his hometown to care for his aging mother.
So, as our brief conversation ended. He handed me a glossy 8x10 portrait of himself.
“Well, Rob, no one lives forever,” he said as he handed me the print. “I want you to hang onto this, so you can use it when you print my obituary.”
He then quickly turned to exit, but then noticed the blank stare on my face and turned back. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on going any time soon, I just want to make sure you have this when you need it.”
Not to worry, Joe, mission accomplished. Just keep rooting us on from above.
