The ghost of my older brother is usually pretty silent.
Sure, it makes some noise around the holidays, slipping into the credenza to rattle the commemorative Norman Rockwell dishes that he bought for our mother inexplicably each Christmas.
And sadly I hear it now making sounds of distressing assent while Donald Trump cheapens the democratic process with his bullying xenophobia.
Jeff and I were diametrically opposed, and spent most of our time together in conflict. Throughout our shared childhood, he had a reflexive disdain for baseball in general and the Mets in particular, and I assumed this was due at least in part to my love for both.
He moved out when I was 14, and I saw him primarily at family gatherings for a few years. When I finally got my driver’s license, I would visit him every so often at his rickety rented house overlooking the animal hospital.
By the time 1986 rolled around, I began to realize that he was talking about the Mets with some enthusiasm, and suddenly out of nowhere we had found a common ground. I watched that year’s playoffs on a 13” color TV in my bedroom, but Jeff attended a couple of Mets/Astros contests, as well as game 7 of the World Series. When I saw him at Thanksgiving, he gave me a copy of the playoff program.
A few days ago, I was poking around in the storage room before dinner looking for some tool or another that I barely know how to use, and I pried open the lid on a container of old magazines. There right on top of the pile was the program.
I leafed through the pages one by one, absorbing the pictures more than the words. When I reached the last page, I placed a finger parallel between my lips and drew a quick breath in surprise. Although I had looked at the program several times over the years, I never realized that a well-worn ticket stub for game 7 was pressed between the final page and the back cover.
Jeff had aimed all those years ago to give me more than a memento of that championship season; he had intended to give me a piece of it, so that for at least once in our lives we could be connected to the same joyous moment.
The ghost of my older brother is usually pretty silent, but clearly I need to do a better job of learning how to listen…
Thanks for sharing Doug.
+1!
brilliant piece of short writing, doug. you should try submitting this to real press, tho they mostly dont know sh!t from shinola these days. lets go mets!
This is what I’m talking about, Doug. Great job. Keep writing this stuff — and maybe not here, but expand, expand, expand. You are just scratching the surface with this piece. There are depths to plumb and you are the kind of writer who can pull it off.
BTW, I have a stub from Game 5, 1969 World Series. Yes, was there. And I’ve lost two older brothers, so I know a little bit how that feels.
Go deeper.
There’s a room in my parents’ house filled with the annual Norman Rockwell Christmas and Mother’s Day plates that my older brother gave my mom, all hanging on the wall.
Very nice, enjoyable piece. It’s amazing how sometimes words come so easily and other times we need to spend so much time connecting them.
Wonderful writing, and thanks for sharing such an incredible moment. You rock!