Joe Sacoco was a pretty decent basketball player. We teamed up together for many a senior foul-shooting competition and truth be told, he carried me to many a victory in our city.
He was also a man who involved himself in theater and the arts, given his connection to the medium with his wife Janice.
It’s safe to say that both are people who have involved themselves in community circles with always a kind word, regardless of the doldrums. We met a couple times inside a hospital where Joe’s wife was receiving treatments, and again at a nursing home where my mother resides. They were there, too, visiting a loved one. I wished them both well and vowed to stay connected.
Joe Sico is a father-in-law through my daughter’s marriage, a humble man to be sure and one who has always espoused himself with woodworking and furniture, along with a caring family.
We have crossed paths on many a holiday and there’s never been an instant when the guy didn’t offer a positive outlook on life. His glass is always half full, not half empty.
The other night, I received a call after falling asleep in front of the TV, a common occurrence. Somewhat groggy, I answered the phone after fumbling with the receiver. Except for a candle burning, there was no other light in the kitchen.
I made a quick glance at the caller ID window and noticed the wrong name. I thought it was Sacoco when in actuality, it was Sico. I spoke first.
“Hey, Joe, to what do I owe this call? Looking to get together for some b-ball? Hey, what a team! Bet we could enter the over-60 class and win the senior Olympics. Just give me the word.”
There was a pause. I may have blindsided the guy after all these years. He had telephoned to invite me over to his home and here I was talking basketball.
“Just thought you’d like to drop by Thanksgiving evening for dessert after you visit your Mom,” he said.
To be quite honest about it, I was prepared to spend a quiet day at home. Pay my visit. Have a coffee in the dining room. Watch some football on TV. And vegetate. We celebrated our Thanksgiving the Sunday before with family, given the rigmarole and other family commitments.
How could I refuse Sacoco, thinking it was still him on the phone? I asked for directions and he seemed mystified.
“C’mon, you’ve been to my home several times. How could you forget the way?”
He proceeded to give me directions to Kensington (N.H.) when I thought he lived in Haverhill, Mass.
“So when did you move?”
“Move? We’ve been living here for an eternity. Whatsamatta, losing your mind?”
I asked him if he had been visiting the nursing home lately—that I haven’t seen him there –and how the theater world was doing with the Pentucket Players. In both cases, he struck a blank. Maybe he was the one with the “senior moment.”
It wasn’t until 10 minutes into the conversation and making an absolute fool of myself before I realized I had the wrong Joe on the line and had this guy totally befuddled with my conversation. And only after accepting the invitation to the wrong house.
This is not a unique embarrassment for me. I’ve done this before and maybe you can relate to it, too. How many times have you addressed the wrong classmate at a high school reunion? How many times have you attended a social gathering without knowing the person’s name who encountered your presence?
Mistaken identities can become foolhardy moments that send us into delirium, and make us wish we were somewhere else.
Maybe you shouldn’t have had that second cocktail.
For the life of me, I have trouble remembering names. I can always recall a face but not the identity. And much to my chagrin, I’ve often muddled the two.
I remember one time taking a woman’s hand, thinking it was the girl I had escorted to the senior prom, when it was another coed whose husband was the jealous sort and rendered some unkind words.
The other day, I was coming out of the movie theater and noticed someone from the rear. The woman had long brown hair and looked like someone from my church who was very near and dear to me.
I slowly crept up and covered her eyes with my hands.
“Guess who?”
She turned around to greet me and it was a total stranger who could easily have called the police.
Tom Vartabedian
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