HEY BIG BROTHER

   While going through some old photos the other day, my wife Andrea found some we had taken at the Old Tiger Stadium.  At the time, we had a camera that would shoot long photos, so that you could produce sweeping vistas.  We did so at The Corner on the second to last game played on that hallowed ground.

   It made me think of my older brother Mike.

   Like many first borns, this guy is a high achiever.  He is a much loved professor at Purdue University, published author and smartest guy I know (damn him).  But more importantly to me, he is a great older brother who took interest in my growing up. 

   Just not at first.  In my early years, I was way more interested in Mike than he was in me.  He was the rebel of St. Francis Xavier, the captain of the football team, the guy who might graduate just because the nuns were sick of his bullshit.  It sounded good to me.

   Then he went away.  Four years in the Air Force.  When he returned, things were different between us.  He acknowledged me and became a person I wanted to please.  It was important that he like me, that I do things he thought were cool.  The next years together were amongst my favorites.  

   When I was a ninth grader at Stout Junior High (it was so long ago that it was called junior high, not middle school and contained grades 7-9), Mike showed up for every football game I played.  He always made sure I saw him in the crowd and supported me even when I played poorly (like when I was flagged for repeated unsportsmanlike and late hit penalties in one game, not my finest moment).  Seeing him on the sidelines with my Mom and brother Tony always meant a great deal to me.

   Mike also loved going to sporting events and always made sure to include Tony and I in the festivities.  I recall going to a Red Wing game at the old Olympia and sticking around after the game to watch the players leave the dressing room.  Mike was frantic, pushing me from player to player to get autographs.  At the end of the day, his guidance and my willingness to push through any size crowd netted signatures from Gordie Howe, Alex Delvicchio, Roger Crozier, Hank Bassen, Gary Bergman and other Wing greats and not so greats.

   My older brother also loved taking Tony and I to Big Time Wrestling at air conditioned Cobo Arena.  One time, as the days leading up to a much anticipated cage match involving The Sheik drew close, a savage winter storm looked like it would keep the three brothers from attending.  Unlike today’s excitement over a few flakes, this storm was real.  Tony and I were bummed.  We would not get a chance to see The Sheik slap the camel clutch on Big Tex Mckenzie.  Mike wasn’t having it.  He somehow persuaded my Mom to let us go (the same Mom who wouldn’t let me swim in the deep end of the pool until third grade), and off we went in his little VW Bug, shit windshield wipers and balky defroster at the ready.  Somehow we got there on time, even though much of the crowd, some of the wrestlers and, most importantly, the cage did not.  It turned out to be a great night, capped by the late arrival of the cage.  I can’t recall who won the main event, but I will never forget our heroic journey to the match.  

   I literally cannot count the amount of times I walked into Tiger Stadium with Mike.  I recall seeing the good and bad of the Tigers and Lions with an older brother who always loved the home team and stuck around to the bitter end.  And remember, with the Lions and Tigers of the sixties and seventies, it typically ended bitterly.

   But what Mike loves more than anything, what makes him crazier than anything is his beloved University of Michigan.  I have no doubt that his love for Blue is the reason Tony and I still curse the television on Saturdays in the fall.  I recall attending the great 1973 Michigan-Ohio State game featuring two undefeated teams and a shot at the national championship.  Mike was wound up for this big game.  I remember climbing the steps way up in the end zone to get a good look at what we were sure would be the winning Michigan field goal on the last play of the game.  When Mike Lantry’s kick sailed wide, our pact as long suffering Michigan fans was sealed.  From Harry Oliver to Kordell Stewart to follicle challenged Hillbilly Rich Rod (as Tony insists on calling him), our shared pain is a bond that can’t be broken.

   The bond between brothers does not only involve watching sports, but playing them as well.  Mike and I occasionally suited up for the same slow pitch softball team.  One summer night at Ford Woods in Dearborn, our team was trouncing a hated rival (when you play against the thorny teams I played for, pretty much everybody you meet becomes a hated rival) when things began to fall apart.  I was in left field, Mike was in right and good friend John Vellicky was on the mound.  John plays a big role in this story, as he is one of the few people I know as volatile as I am when it comes to competition.  The opposition started giving John shit from the bench when he walked the first batter of the last inning.  As they got louder, John got wilder.  Mix in an error or two, some boneheaded throwing decisions and you get a tie game with a runner on third and one out.  The next batter hit a soft fly to Mike in right field.  I love Mike, but his arm is infantile, and there was no way he was going to throw out the winning run tagging up from third.  He never got a chance to try as the ball popped in and out of his glove while the winning run jogged home.  Our team was totally deflated as we sat on the bench, heads down.  John sat near me and said, quietly at first, “I know you want to yell at me, so go ahead.”  I declined.  A bit louder now.  “No, go ahead and say it.”  I declined again.  “No, everybody’s pissed at me, so say it.”  He got me on the third try.  “All right, I’ll say it.  You’re an asshole.  You let those guys get to you and cost us the game.  It’s your fault.”  Being big in defeat is not my strong suit.  For some reason, my unraveling was too much for Mike to bear, and he left the diamond cursing and sputtering.  As he crossed the side street to his car, he started talking off parts of his uniform and tossing them to the ground.  I saw a cap, jersey, stirrups and pants.  When all was said and done, I the last I saw of him was his 135 pound ass cheeks framed by a ratty jockstrap as they got into his VW Bug for the long ride home.

   It’s not just sports.  Mike loves family and always wants the best for me.  When I was enrolled at Eastern Michigan University, I did a speech about the role placement plays in a sibling’s success.  As stated earlier, Mike is a typical high achieving first born (dick).  Naturally, I asked him to send me a short video explaining how he felt being first born affected his success in life, so that I could use it as the centerpiece of my finals presentation.  Forget what he said, though it was brilliant and on the money.  In the video, he had placed a monitor casually behind him.  Scrolling constantly across the monitor was the sentence, “Jim deserves an A in this class.”  Everybody in that room, including my aged prof got a big bang out it, and I did get an A.

   

   Did I mention that I lived in the apartment below Mike for years?  Or that we worked together on a truck delivering furniture for awhile (nobody injured themselves more than Mike, almost death wish like)  That he showed up early for my son’s graduation party and worked for hours helping set up (my hand to God, he hurt himself nailing up some posters...ahh just like the old days)?  That he was in my wedding party?

In closing:

There once was a brother named Mike

Whose personality I tended to like

But when witnessing his rants

And the dispatching of pants

I put copying him forever on strike

Cheers! Jim