A recent Economist article suggests that American men come up short when it comes to friends, guy friends specifically. American heroes ride solo. Think Gary Cooper in High Noon, Jack Reacher, Spider Man, The Hulk, or Cleatus, the Fox Sports animatronic figure with laser eyeballs. “Real men” are quiet, stoic, independent, shoot straight, take pride in six-pack abs and are not given to joining break-out groups or writing thank-you notes. In the USA the rock-jawed cowboy rides into town on his cayuse, defeats a phalanx of bad hombres single-handed, gets the girl, and then skedaddles. He doesn’t stay, marry the school marm, join a barber shop quartet and raise sheep. Sometimes the cowboy has a sidekick, who provides snappy one-liners and tells him that Black Bart has just brung his gang of bad asses into town. The cowboy doesn’t confess to the sidekick his long-suppressed desire to ride side-saddle.
The American man is tough as well as independent. My mother and father (the General) decided I needed to butch up when I was eleven. They enrolled me in a boxing club on the military base. On the first day it became known that I was an officer’s kid. Thereafter my nose was punched more often than the Lobby button on an elevator. In my final bout I had to wear a clumpy Everlast groin protector that kept slipping off my waist and sliding down my leg. I held up the protector with my left hand and circled to the right, my business hand waving threateningly in front of me, a one-clawed crab. I would have preferred my nose were safe in a book at the post library.
The Economist article lays the declining male friendship on isolation, caused by, among other things, an American man’s dedication to work, playing Grand Theft Auto alone, or driving twelve-year-olds to dance rehearsal or Little League practice. He should be sharing a beer with a pal, exploring his lifelong aversion to spinach and a fear of tight underwear. But even with a friend at hand, glass of suds in his mitt, the cowboy ethos makes an American man’s expression of feelings challenging. He is limited to singing My Way in the shower.
Male groups provide opportunities for exchanging innermost stirrings and exploring ideas in a low-risk environment. Threatening a Titleist golf ball with his three-wood on the first tee, a fellow can ask his mates, “So, what do you guys think about Tom Brady retiring? I kinda feel he should have stuck it out another year.” This is a start. By the eighteenth hole, the foursome could be exploring football as a metaphor for corporate life, where, like football, grizzled old pros hang up their briefcases, making way for younger dudes who understand cryptocurrency, know where to find the mute button on a Zoom screen, and sport body ink.
Though seeming bonded, male groups like Marvel’s Avengers, the Fantastic Four, and the Proud Boys are not in it to share feelings. They are about showing off their super-powers, busting mega-criminals, and in the case of the last group, overthrowing governments.
The sweet spot for male groups, particularly for men who venture beyond the newspaper sports section, is a men’s book club. The beauty of a book club is that there is a common topic providing a base from which men can safely veer into the personal. My club gives a nominal thirty minutes to chew over the book before launching into politics, race, and the culture wars, lubricated by a bottle of red and a bottle of white, and snacks (peanut M&Ms preferred). Our last book title was – ta-da – Strong Men: Mussolini to the Present. What did you expect?
Friends provide counsel. Think of King David in the Bible. He was a married man, his Goliath-slaying days in the rearview mirror, when he saw Bathsheba displaying her comely wares on a nearby rooftop. He didn’t have a pal to counsel him and say “Whoa, big guy.” Things might have gone better for all concerned, particularly for Uriah the Hittite, David’s general and Bathsheba’s husband. King David sent Uriah into battle figuring Uriah would buy the farm, freeing King David to get cozy with Bathsheba. A friend would have counseled David to calm his body, and do a solid for Uriah, avoiding a blemish on David’s otherwise sterling record, as Old Testament kings go. That is what pals are for.
There is no one way to free men of their emotional shackles and man-share. Men, you probably have friends who have a library card. Call them, start a book club. Or get fearless; take a deep breath and invite a pal to lunch. Today. Now.
Marshall Craig 