This pops up from Facebook posts past. The number dropped this year to one, who has no inkling where the prize is, if it, like him, survives. 

Urging you to value friendships and wishing you the best in 2026. 

– – –

Now there are just three.

Once they were six, linked as boys tighter than chromosomes in a DNA string.

They lived in different parts of the same small town, meeting through youth sports, Saturday morning movies and KiddieLand visits. 

By the time they reached high school they did almost everything together — school, church, summer jobs, sports, hunting, fishing, chasing girls.

If you saw one, you knew at least one, and more than likely all five, of the others were in the vicinity.

They did foolish things, together, and made amends, together.

As graduation approached, it was obvious things would soon change.

There would be college for some, work for others … and there was a war starting.

On a hot night in May of their 18th year, as they lounged on a sand bar sipping beer, one dreamer suggested a pact. And a deal was struck.

A case of beer was purchased the next day. It would be in the care of one of them’s sister until they reached 50, which seemed a sure thing but a really long way off.

The fact these guys bought beer rather than trying to buy a bottle of good wine tells you lots about them.

After two passed far too soon, the four that did reach the mark could not bring themselves to open the Jax at 50. So they changed the deal — the case would go to the last survivor.

Number Three died this month, his body giving out after a long struggle.

The remaining three talked at the wake about dissolving the covenant, but could not bring themselves to break faith with those who had already gone.

So now there are three, and of course neither knows who’ll be four, five or six.

But they are certain that whichever opens that first can from the case will find it a bittersweet brew.