go.Jimmy.go

There are certain people from childhood who never really grow old.

The world around us changes. Our favorite television shows disappear. Our hairstyles become questionable, and the things we once considered incredibly cool suddenly become material for embarrassing photographs.

But some people remain exactly as we remember them.

Henry Winkler is one of those people.

As I write this in 2026, Winkler is going to be 81 years old. I’m still not sure how that’s possible, because somewhere inside my head he’s still wearing a leather jacket, leaning against a jukebox at Arnold’s, and giving me a thumbs-up.

Ayyyyyy.

For anyone who grew up in the 1970s, Henry Winkler needs very little introduction. He was the one and only Arthur Fonzarelli.

The Fonz.

And to a little blonde-haired kid growing up in Easton, Pennsylvania, he was right up there with Spider-Man and Ultraman as one of the coolest beings who ever walked the face of the Earth.

Somewhere in the 1970s is where my story begins, during a time when Happy Days was appointment television in our Southside house.

I couldn’t tell you every storyline today. I probably couldn’t recite much of the dialogue, but none of that really matters. All I knew was that Fonzie was my hero.

The moment that record started spinning and the Happy Days intro theme kicked in, everything stopped. And when Fonzie appeared on the 19″ color television screen in my living room giving that trademark thumbs-up, I knew all was right with the world.

Because Richie, Ralph and Potsie could get themselves into whatever ridiculous situation they wanted, and Fonzie would be the one take care of it.

It didn’t matter how big or tough the bad guy was. The moment Fonzie walked into the room, the balance of power shifted.

My personal favorite episodes involved a guy with some sort of metal claw for a hand. He came at Fonzie, who simply grabbed the thing and bent it backward.

That was it. Fight over.

At the time, I remember thinking even Spider-man might have had trouble pulling that one off.

The truth is, the Fonz didn’t even need to fight most of the time. His reputation usually arrived in the room five minutes before he did.

Even my own family respected him. Me and my brother Louie; better known to practically everyone as Bones, used to fought like cats and dogs when we were kids. Bones was one tough cookie back then. In fact, he was probably one of the more feared kids in our neighborhood.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Who could possibly be afraid of somebody named Bones?

Trust me. We all were.

Approaching Bones on a bad day could result in a headlock, a noogie, a punch in the arm or some creative combination of all three.

But when Happy Days came on, Bones stopped. His eyes were glued to the television watching Fonzie.

Oh, I’m sure Bones would like you to believe he and The Fonz existed on roughly the same level of coolness.

I knew the truth.

Bones respected The Fonz.

And really, who could blame him?

Fonzie possessed powers the rest of us could only dream about.

Consider this:

The Fonz could snap his fingers and women would suddenly appear out of nowhere. A skill I desperately could have used back in high school.

He could walk into a bathroom, pull out his comb, check himself in the mirror and realize there was absolutely no reason to use it. His hair was already perfect.

Then, of course, there was the jukebox.

I can’t tell you how many times I smacked the side of something as a kid hoping it would magically start working.

It never did. Apparently that particular superpower belonged exclusively to Arthur Fonzarelli.

But the greatest Fonzie power of all was simply entering a room.

The man would walk through a doorway and people would start cheering.

Applause. Whistles. Screaming women.

Imagine having that happen every time you walked into work. Most of us are lucky if somebody looks up from their phone.

Fonzie’s powers even extended into the supernatural—or at least they did in my childhood imagination.

There was a period when I had to sleep in the attic of my grandparents’ old house. It was one of those turn-of-the-century homes with narrow staircases, creaking floors and enough strange nighttime noises to convince a young boy that something was definitely living up there with him.

But I wasn’t afraid.

Because hanging near where I slept was a huge poster of The Fonz.

Leather jacket.

Smile.

Thumbs up.

HEY!

That poster was better than any nightlight.

As far as I was concerned, if Bones respected Fonzie, there wasn’t a ghost, monster or Boogie Man around stupid enough to mess with him.

Happy Days eventually ended its run in 1984, right around the time I was entering high school.

And life moved on.

I moved on.

And for a long time, Henry Winkler became one of those comforting names from childhood. Whenever I’d see him appear in something, I’d immediately think:

The Fonz.

But something interesting happened over the next forty years.

I discovered Henry Winkler.

Not Fonzie.

Henry.

And as it turns out, the man behind the leather jacket might be even cooler than the guy wearing it.

Winkler went on to build a remarkable career after Happy Days, although it wasn’t always easy. Being so closely identified with one of the most famous characters in television history became both a blessing and a curse.

He continued acting, producing and directing, and eventually found an entirely new generation of fans through shows like Arrested Development, Parks and Recreation and Barry.

His performance as acting teacher Gene Cousineau on Barry was the one that finally earned him his first Primetime Emmy in 2018.

Think about that for a moment.

The Fonz never won an Emmy, but Henry Winkler did.

And in 2025, more than fifty years after he first put on that leather jacket, Winkler was inducted into the Television Academy Hall of Fame.

But perhaps the most interesting thing I’ve learned about him has nothing to do with Hollywood.

Winkler has spoken openly about growing up with severe dyslexia at a time when very few people understood what it was. He struggled in school and spent much of his childhood believing he simply wasn’t smart enough.

He wasn’t diagnosed until adulthood. Then the kid who struggled to read eventually became an author.

And not just an author who slapped his celebrity name on a book.

Together with Lin Oliver, Winkler has written dozens of children’s books, including the Hank Zipzer series inspired partly by his own experiences with learning difficulties.

In 2023, Winkler published his memoir, Being Henry: The Fonz…and Beyond, an honest look at his childhood, dyslexia, fame, family, insecurity and the strange experience of spending your entire adult life connected to a character the world refuses to forget.

That’s a long way from pounding a fist on a jukebox.

And maybe that’s why, all these years later, Henry Winkler still represents something about “cool” to me. Although my definition of the word has changed.

When I was seven years old, cool meant a leather jacket.

It meant motorcycles.

It meant perfect hair.

It meant being able to snap your fingers and have girls appear.

It meant walking into a room and having everybody cheer.

At this point in my life, cool means something different.

Cool is reaching 81 years old and still being excited about what comes next.

Cool is surviving disappointment.

Cool is finding another chapter of your life when everyone else thinks they already know your entire story.

Cool is having a character you played more than fifty years ago follow you everywhere—and somehow never appearing bitter about it.

And maybe the coolest thing of all is discovering that you don’t have to remain the person everybody remembers you being.

Henry Winkler has spent more than half a century proving that. In fact, here in 2026, he’s still working. Still acting. Still writing. Still showing up. Still talking about how much he loves what he does.

The leather jacket is long gone. The jukebox probably doesn’t work anymore. Arnold’s has been closed for decades. And that little blonde-haired kid who once slept safely beneath a poster of The Fonz is now considerably older himself.

But every once in a while I’ll see Henry Winkler on television and something strange happens.

For just a second, I’m back in that old house again.

I’m climbing those creaky stairs.

I’m looking at that poster, and there he is.

Leather jacket.

Smile.

Thumbs up.

Ayyyyyy.

Still cool.

Maybe even cooler.

And somewhere, I suspect Bones is still afraid of him.