This is the sixth in a series of stories celebrating the unforgettable songs (even if you thought you've forgotten them you haven't, trust us) from arguably the craziest music era of all time: The '80s. Whether this was the music of your youth or long before your time, a little bit of the '80s surely lives in you.

I know what you’re all thinking. You’re thinking that I’m jumping on the quasi-ironic cultural embrace of Journey bandwagon that started with The Sopranos finale and reached critical mass this past year with the whole Glee phenomenon. It seems that everyone is re-appraising the work of these arena rockers and finding hidden value in their lighter-waving, gut-busting, video-game inspiring, spaceships-on-album-covers-soaring music.

Well, that’s not what I’m doing here. In all honesty, I don’t own any Journey albums. There was music you could abide on the radio, and there was music you loved. For me, Journey was always the former. Their revival is fine by me, as they did have a knack for making an odd combination of slick musicianship and mawkish sentiment palatable to the masses, and a lot of it is a good sight better than Top 40 radio these days.

But I’m not rushing out to get the Escape reissue, if such a thing even exists.

So why “Send Her My Love,” you ask? Well, if there is a point behind this whole Crazy '80s series, I guess it’s to say that the experience we have with songs often outweighs any merit, or lack thereof, they might possess. And “Send Her My Love” holds a special place for me in my memory as the only slow song that was played at both my junior and senior high school proms.

Let me set the stage for you. The name of the band was Freefall. At least, that’s how I remember it. I know it was a one-word name that was trying to sound profound but ended up sounding generic, a strategy all the rage with bands back then. Maybe they were Stardust. Or Firedream. But I’m pretty sure it was Freefall. Besides the point, really.

Anyway, they were a bunch of longhairs starting to get long in the tooth, and it sounded like they played the same set whether they were in the 1:30 a.m. slot in some local bar or jamming for some Jesuit school snots like us. It was all grinding rock from the '70s, like a Foghat tribute band might play. This stuff was seriously unsuitable for dancing, which was fine by me, because I was utterly terrified at the time to even think about betraying to the entire school my awe-inducing lack of rhythm.

But, toward the end of the night, both years, they trotted out “Send Her My Love.” I can remember thinking that is was an odd choice, considering that, at that point at the end of the '80s, Journey was a cultural dinosaur. Plus, the song kind of lurches and sputters rhythm-wise, not exactly conducive to the foot-to-foot sway that most teenagers considered slow dancing.

My proms did not turn out like I had hoped, needless to say. Hopelessly insecure and terrified of failure with the ladies, I could never quite bust out of my shell enough to give myself even a fighting chance. My junior year, I went with a friend, and actually got a handshake at the end of the night. (Youch!) My senior year, I went with an on-again, off-again flame, just to say we were going to the prom, and it was as awkward as you might expect.

For years after, thinking about my proms would send me rocketing back to my high school self and I would think of missed opportunities and lingering heartache. Little by little, though, as I became further removed from that mixed-up kid, I got a little nostalgic about them. I’ve been in touch with both prom dates in recent years, and that awkwardness is a source of great amusement now.

It’s a funny thing though. When I hear “Send Her My Love,” that nostalgia nudges ever so slightly toward wistfulness. I’m right back out on that dance floor, my lone dance of the night, the smell of perfume so clear, the flop sweat in my tuxedo shirt dripping again, holding my date for dear life as I tentatively step around her feet.

In Steve Perry’s voice I can hear my painfully earnest teenage voice saying goodnight to my senior date while all the things that I truly wanted to say to her roared unheard in my brain. In Neil Schon’s wailing guitar solo I can feel the sting of that junior year handshake all over again, as well as the sensation of emptiness in my arms. All of the the long-dormant emotions, the old insecurities and weaknesses stop by, just for the duration of the song.

When it ends, they’re gone again, back to slumber until another chance flip of the radio dial summons them for an encore.

And yet, as painful as those memories may seem, I don’t shrink from them anymore. The innocence of teenage sorrow, that beautiful ache, holds a special allure as the years tear away. My 20-year high school reunion is fast approaching. I don’t know if work will permit me to go, but I’ll be there in spirit. And I can’t help but wonder though if the artists I think were known as Freefall are available on that night.

If they are, I’ve got a request for them.