Back in the early ’80s juggling defined me. It was, as my mother said, the only discernible skill with which I returned from college.

I juggled regularly in college. I had juggling friends. I juggled outside in the good weather with a band of friendly juggling geeks. I juggled inside in any weather every weekend at the official juggling club meetings. Paul, the club president, would pop “Tea for the Tillerman” into his boom box, share some cream cheese sandwiches or other vegetarian snacks, and we would all juggle for hours in the Women’s Building on Syracuse University’s campus.

I learned how to pass clubs, do a few tricks, comfortably (at the time) juggle four balls and occasionally four clubs. I handled fire and knives on loan from friends. And, since so many juggling/circus/clown tricks are learned by the same sorts of folks and even more so shared among the same sorts, I learned how to twist balloon animals. Really, there’s nothing quite like the kind of particular subset of geek party where everyone brings there juggling props and someone throws a gross of 260 balloons in the middle of the floor and ridiculous creativity ensues.

In those awkward first days away from home at college and going through the awkward student years, juggling was a meditative activity where I could focus all sorts of pent up energy.

Later, after my first couple of “real” post-college jobs in the cold, hard world, as I worked out the things I didn’t want to do in my life, I practiced alone every now and again, performed, badly, for a few charity events and entertained my nephews, as much as they ever found me entertaining. But, by and large, I let some of interest wane.

Then, in the late ’80s, circa 1989, I caught up with my first non-profit toil. Basically, I learned with my skill set and demeanor I was destined for a life of less than exorbitant wealth. In that reality, I may as well make shitty, cog-in-the-wheel dough, it might as well not profit anyone. The funnest part of those glorious no-money-making career path days was the number of beer-drinking, science geeks, who became my friends, co-workers and colleagues. And, among them were a handful of jugglers.

I was back in my pattern. Juggling in the sun, going to regular club meetings (this time at MIT). Where there are numbers nerds and academic swaths of green grass, there are likely jugglers.

Instead of the college-based festival circuit, where I headed regularly in the springtime of college, I had the posse and the green in my pocket to check out the big time. I went to the International Juggling Association convention, juggled all day and all night and met “stars” in that world. Anthony Gatto was just a kid. “Contact” juggling had just been given a name, and Michael Moschen’s hand, standing in for David Bowie’s, was semi-famous.

Teeny little nerd fun fact, as part of a multi-person, late-night, star-shaped passing formation, where a few folks were passing clubs as anchors, feeding clubs to other folks with skills who wove through the pattern, I can truly say I juggled with Michael Moschen. I was an anchor, he was/is a talent.

I only juggle a little these days.

Color me surprised tonight, when I ended up through a work-related thing dining with the real deal. A juggler who had managed to earn a few dollars back in his youth. Someone you can google, as the kids say, but I won’t hear on account of the work connection. Someone who juggled for the goddamn Rolling Stones and in front of Princess Margaret (in a related event). Someone who trained with Dick Franco.

By the weeks end, I’m planning for some throwing down.

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