Are Reunions Worthwhile?

by Eric Boa

It’s been twelve years since their last reunion, and though some have died in the intervening years, numbers are up: 135 compared to 117. Everyone is getting on. Many have come a long way and will be eager to catch up with their peers. The food will be good – it always is – and there’s lots of juicy gossip to exchange. The setting for the reunion is sublime. The wines will be spectacular, though everyone will need to keep a clear head. There’s important business to be done. And having to give up your mobile phone will prove tricky. What’s the point of juicy gossip unless you can share it with others?

The papal conclave is the ultimate reunion. By the time this article appears, they may have reached their decision. Not on day one, at least. There will be joy and disappointment when the final flourish of white smoke appears*. Job done. Another pope elected, yet some ambitions thwarted. Relief that it’s all over: there’s only so many times you can admire the roof of the Sistine Chapel. Mobile phones are returned and its back to the humdrum business of guiding the flocks.

Equally grand get-togethers as the papal conclave do exist. I’m thinking of a spectacular reunion held every four years, where the select participants also experience mixed emotions. Relief they’re no longer in the post. Some attend to appear gracious in defeat, others to confirm their status as global statesmen (and they are all male – so far). Some will feel bruised, resentful or appalled at the latest person to join their group. There will be limited opportunities for chit chat. Exchanges will be brief.

“Hi Jimmy. Good to see you’re still here.”

“Good to see you too, Bill. And brave of you to bring the wife.”

“Just doing my duty, Jimmy. This is my fifth reunion. How about you?”

“This will be my ninth since I gave up the job.”

“Wow. That’s some achievement Jimmy. Though I seem to remember the job gave you up.”

“True – though I’ve always stuck with the same woman. How was impeachment, by the way?”

Hillary Clinton, the failed candidate, did indeed turn up to Donald Trump’s 2017 presidential inauguration. She was also there with Bill earlier this year. Trump has had the most ex-presidents attend his inaugurations (four for each), as far as I can see**. Jimmy Carter was a serial attender, following his defeat to Reagan in 1980. His seven attendances still outstrip Bill Clinton (six and counting).

Presidential inaugurations provide an excellent example of how not being invited, or spurning an invitation, carries a particular significance. Richard Nixon was persona non grata after he resigned and did not attend when invited by the gracious Carter. Trump refused to attend Biden’s inauguration.

Reunions involving cardinals and ex-presidents are exceptional. Things work differently for routine reunions, such as those based on employment or a particular profession. Medics love reunions even though my doctor friends seem equivocal about their attraction. Cohorts tend to be large – there were around 100 medical students in each year when I was at university. When you run out of people you remember – and this will be a small group – you can always swap stories about hospitals, unusual cases and the failings of the NHS, and bask in the elevated status you’ve achieved. Medics are good at signalling achievements with long lists of initials at the end of their names.

My Botany class of 1975 at the University of Aberdeen has never had a reunion. And never will. There were only ten of us. We had few joint classes. I stayed in touch with one classmate for a few years after we graduated, then drifted apart. She became a travel agent, then a psychotherapist. I’d like to thank her for introducing me to my wife of forty-four years, but why go to a reunion to do this? More generally, what’s the point of attending a reunion with people you didn’t know especially well decades ago and with whom you’ve had no contact since?

This was the main thought that flashed by me when I learnt that my university rugby club was celebrating its 150th anniversary with a fancy dinner. It’s 50 years since I last played rugby for Aberdeen. I haven’t spoken to any of my ex-teammates since then, though I have stayed in touch with our coach. I surprised myself by signing up and joining a WhatsApp group. My reservations started to weaken when I discovered three team-mates living close-by in southwest London. Heathrow closed and all flights were cancelled on the day of departure to Aberdeen. Ian and his wife Heather drove me and Graeme for ten hours and we managed to make it in time for the reunion weekend.

Never has such a long journey gone so quickly. The reunion magic was working. I started to reflect on what made rugby special for me at university, something I hadn’t thought about for a long time. We were remarkably successful and dedicated long hours to getting fit and winning. The popular view at the time was student rugby was chaotic. Drinking came before playing. Our winning formula was careful planning and commitment with a dash of gifted players, all held together by our coach, Mal. He was years ahead of his time. Yes, someone “stole a fire engine” during a French tour and large amounts of alcohol were consumed. But these and other escapades were not the defining highlights.

Dave, the organiser of the WhatsApp group, asked people to share information about what had happened after they left Aberdeen. We’ve now got a book with 38 cameos and lots of photos, evoking moments of sporting excellence and camaraderie -  e.g. the one above, outside our favourite bar in Aberdeen - with at least two simulated sex acts. I believe one of the participants is now a shepherd in the Scottish borders. The one with his tongue out is now a Commander of the British Empire. The book developed organically, a sideshow to the dinner, the main event and pivot of the reunion. Oh dear. My reservations resurfaced as I took my place at a table along with three hundred other folk.

A lot of people have played rugby at Aberdeen since I left in 1976. The noise and bustle at the dinner were overwhelming, leaving little opportunity for idle chat. The sense of togetherness created via WhatsApp evaporated. Things got worse. Someone had thought it necessary to invite a Guest Speaker, a Famous Rugby Player who’d played for Scotland and the British Lions. He had no direct connection to Aberdeen University. Never mind; he had a bottomless pit of rugby anecdotes and off-colour jokes. Dull and embarrassing and, above all, redundant. This is where reunions go awry.

There were redeeming parts to the dinner. Mal, our coach, got some of the recognition he deserved in front of diners who had played university rugby after he left his post. It improved when other rugby alumni spoke on team rituals and rites of passage. But it’s the life stories and photos that still stand out, evoking dormant memories.

We had a pre-season training week at Pontins Holiday Camp in Morecombe, a novel idea to prepare us for the university championship at the beginning of the academic year. We were, at the time, the only university that did this, and one of the reasons why we swept the other teams aside.

This was the first time any of us had been to Pontins, a cheap, cheerful and slightly bizarre place to base a university rugby squad. Loudspeakers outside each chalet blasted Una Paloma Blanca, a pop hit in the 1970s, to announce breakfast. Followed by exhortations to “get up – or you’ll miss it”. We formed two queues outside a cavernous and bleak dining room. The queues were named after leading cigarette brands (Embassy and Castella). Waitresses with broad Scottish accents, down south for the summer season, dumped our trays of food as they hastened to serve the masses. We stood out from all the other package holiday families and got extra helpings when the servers discovered we were from Aberdeen.

I remember a knobbly-knees competition at Pontins. Whatever happened to this holiday staple? Why am I telling you all this? Because as life moves on, I reminisce and reflect more on what went before. So yes, the reunion was worthwhile. One last vignette. Our team captain, Dave Robertson, was a big fan of I Left My Heart in San Francisco. I learnt the tune from sheet music so I could accompany a festive rendering of this rousing show tune. They sang the Tony Bennett version lustily. It was not the same as the sheet music and my efforts to please faded. Maybe I can have another go when we reassemble for a smaller and more intimate reunion. One better suited to a celebration of who we were and what we’ve become.

* It’s the end of the cardinals reunion as I’m about to submit this to our editor: the white smoke has emerged.

** I’m grateful to Carl Anthony’s website for details of who attended presidential inaugurations.