Group of Men Have Played Game of Tag for 23 Years;
Hiding in Bushes, Cars
Earlier this month, Brian Dennehy started a new job as chief marketing officer ofNordstrom Inc. In his first week, he pulled aside a colleague to ask a question: How hard it is for a nonemployee to enter the building?
Mr. Dennehy doesn't have a particular interest in corporate security. He just doesn't want to be "It."
Mr. Dennehy and nine of his friends have spent the past 23 years locked in a game of "Tag."
It started in high school when they spent their morning break darting around the campus of Gonzaga Preparatory School in Spokane, Wash. Then they moved on—to college, careers, families and new cities. But because of a reunion, a contract and someone's unusual idea to stay in touch, tag keeps pulling them closer. Much closer.
The game they play is fundamentally the same as the schoolyard version: One player is "It" until he tags someone else. But men in their 40s can't easily chase each other around the playground, at least not without making people nervous, so this tag has a twist. There are no geographic restrictions and the game is live for the entire month of February. The last guy tagged stays "It" for the year.
That means players get tagged at work and in bed. They form alliances and fly around the country. Wives are enlisted as spies and assistants are ordered to bar players from the office.
One February day in the mid-1990s, Mr. Tombari and his wife, then living in California, got a knock on the door from a friend. "Hey, Joe, you've got to check this out. You wouldn't believe what I just bought," he said, as he led the two out to his car."You're like a deer or elk in hunting season," says Joe Tombari, a high-school teacher in Spokane, who sometimes locks the door of his classroom during off-periods and checks under his car before he gets near it.
What they didn't know was Sean Raftis, who was "It," had flown in from Seattle and was folded in the trunk of the Honda Accord. When the trunk was opened he leapt out and tagged Mr. Tombari, whose wife was so startled she fell backward off the curb and tore a ligament in her knee.
"I still feel bad about it," says Father Raftis, who is now a priest in Montana. "But I got Joe."
It could have been worse for Mr. Tombari. He was "It" in 1982, heading into the last day of high school. He plotted to tag a friend, who had gone home early that day. But when he got there, the friend, tipped off by another player, was sitting in his parents' car with the doors locked. There wasn't enough time to tag someone else.
"The whole thing was quite devastating," says Mr. Tombari. "I was 'It' for life."
About eight years later, some of the group were gathered for a weekend when the topic turned to Mr. Tombari and the feeble finish to his tag career. Someone came up with an idea to revive the game for one month out of the year.
Patrick Schultheis, then a first-year lawyer, drafted a "Tag Participation Agreement," which outlined the spirit of the game and the rules (no "tag-backs," or tagging the player who just tagged you). Everyone signed. The game was on.
One year early on when Mike Konesky was "It," he got confirmation, after midnight, that people were home at the house where two other players lived. He pulled up to their place at around 2 a.m., sneaked into the garage and groped around in the dark for the house door. "It was open," he says. "I'm like, 'Oh, man, I could get arrested.' "
Mr. Konesky tiptoed toward Mr. Dennehy's bedroom, burst through the door and flipped on the light. A bleary-eyed Mr. Dennehy looked up as his now-wife yelled "Run, Brian!" Mr. Konesky recalls. "There was nowhere for Brian to run."
Over the years, some of the players fanned out around the country—which curbed the action but raised the stakes. At one point, Chris Ammann was living in Boston. So Mr. Konesky dipped into his frequent-flier miles and crossed the country on the last weekend of the month. He spent the next two days in the bushes outside Mr. Ammann's apartment, sitting in his friend's favorite bar or driving up and down his street. Mr. Ammann never showed. Mr. Konesky was "It" for the year.
"I felt bad," says Mr. Ammann, who went out of town for the weekend. "I think I would have sacrificed getting tagged to spend some time with him."
The participants say tag has helped preserve friendships that otherwise may have fizzled. Usually, though, the prospect of 11 months of ridicule overrides brotherhood.
Mr. Schultheis once refused to help a colleague change his tire, fearing the guy had been recruited to help get him tagged. He sometimes goes to Hawaii in February, partly to lessen the chances of getting tagged.
Every February, Mr. Schultheis's office manager provides security detail as well as administrative functions.
Mr. Tombari once tried to talk his way past her. "She knew it was tag time," he says. "I wasn't allowed in. Nobody got in to see him."
Mr. Konesky, a tech-company manager, is now "It" again and has had 11 months to stew. With February approaching, he has been batting around a few plans of attack. He says he likes to go after people who haven't been "It" for a while. That includes Father Raftis, who has been harder to reach since he moved to Montana but who, as several players pointed out, is a sitting duck on Sundays.
"Once I step foot outside the rectory, all bets are off," the priest says. "I have to be a little more careful."
Originally, from here.
Originally, from here.