Yesterday morning, I read a little article in the sports section of our newspaper about a high school wrestler named Sam that was undefeated in his senior year and is now preparing for the state wrestling tournament. The story caught my eye because I used to work with his brother, and later his mother, and had heard about how talented this young man was in sports since he was a little kid, excelling in football and wrestling. His dad coached football and wrestling at the high school, and will retire at the end of the year when his youngest child heads off to college. In the story, Sam indicated that while it helped to have a father as a coach, he thought that he really owed his superior ability in wrestling to his three older brothers. He learned early on how to defend himself when the bigger guys picked on him.
I read a shocking statistic in the paper last week. A research study indicated that when siblings between the ages of 3 and 7 are together they fight at a rate of 3.5 times per hour, with each fight lasting about ten minutes. I grew up with two older brothers, and we were each separated by two years and five months from the next, so that when I was three, my oldest brother Rick was seven. One thought immediately comes to mind: Sorry Mom! This is followed closely by a second thought: my daughter’s three young boys are even closer in age to one another than we were. Sorry dear, but you’ve got a tough road ahead of you.
I suppose that these little nuggets of information shouldn’t surprise me. Growing up as the youngest of three boys, one of the things that I remember well is all of the fighting, and all of the times that, as the youngest, I was getting beat up. I don’t resent it. It was just part of being a kid. I got over it a long time ago, and hold no resentment. The truth of the matter is that it made me stronger. My oldest brother died when I was thirteen and he was eighteen, so we really never had an opportunity for an adult relationship. However, near the end, we sort of got along, at least most of the time. I also realize that it came about when I was old enough and big enough to successfully defend myself.
After my oldest brother died my brother Gary and I pretty much stopped quarreling altogether. It wasn’t that we were closer. In fact, we grew apart from one another. He had his interests and I had mine. We both worked for my dad’s companies, but Gary mostly worked at a different store than I did. We hung out in the same circles sometimes, but for years it seemed that I was closer to some of his friends than I was to him.
Oddly enough it was separation that brought us together. He went away to college for a semester in Florida. When the family came down for a visit, Gary was eager to show me around and share his favorite haunts. When I went to school in Columbus, he came to visit, and always welcomed me to his place on my frequent trips home to restock my pantry. Gary started a family, and I began my disjointed trek towards a career. We still worked together for a short time, and shared our love for boating and water skiing at our parents’ place at Lake Mohawk.
Things changed as things typically do, without rhyme or reason and in directions wholly unanticipated. Trying times found my brother unprepared, and I did something that I really didn’t want to do: I offered my home as his refuge. It was only going to be for a few months at most, just until he got back on his feet. It’s the kind of thing that brothers do for one another. I’m pretty sure I read that in the bible or somewhere like that.
Life moved on, again taking convoluted paths that no one anticipated. I bought my dad’s place at the lake and my brother came along. We had good times aplenty, and I got to share in Gary’s all too brief parenting episodes with his son and daughter. Some of those holiday experiences remain among my most cherished memories. However, after more than a decade of shared experiences, it was again time for changes. I got married and moved back to my first house with my new family.
Details of what followed are best left unexamined, but eventually I found myself in need of help. It was then that I realized that one doesn't need to share DNA to be a true brother. My close friends came to my aid, and it’s not unfair to say that they literally saved my life. It’s what brothers do for each other once they’re done with the fighting. In the most ironic twist of events, I eventually found myself as a guest in my brother’s home.
There are a few instances in my childhood involving my brothers that came as a complete shock to me, considering the near constant state of bickering that pervaded our relationships. When I was very young, we went to a farm north of town, where a friend of my grandfather’s kept his daughters’ horses. We were warned that one horse in particular was known to viciously bite strangers, yet curiosity got the better of us and we ventured into the corral. The evil equine shied away at first, but after my brothers had left the enclosure, he turned his attention to me and charged. I was paralyzed with fear as he closed on me, then something amazing happened. My brother Rick, who usually regarded me with casual indifference when I wasn’t busy being his personal punching bag, reached over the fence, picked me up under the arms, and lifted me to safety. By the way, I was always overweight as a child, ranging from a bit husky to way too fat, so this feat of strength is even more miraculous.
Gary amazed me as well when we went to YMCA camp as kids. I was in the group of younger kids in a separate area of the camp and had somehow acquired a somewhat older and larger tormentor who likely viewed me as easy pickings for his psychotic leanings. We were in line for lunch or dinner, and this bully was messing with me, eventually punching me in the back of the neck as he stood behind me in line. To his surprise, but even more to my surprise, he received a punch of his own from behind. I looked around and saw my brother Gary as he informed the bully that I was permanently off limits, or he would find out what is was like to be picked on by someone bigger. Yes, brothers fight among themselves all of the time, but become something completely different when a threat comes from outside the circle of brotherhood. I’m sure sociologists can explain the phenomenon, but it was a new and warmly welcomed experience for me at the time.
We are all members of tribes, no matter how civilized we think we have become. The closest knit group is usually the family, which typically endures no matter how frequently we fight among ourselves. We expand this circle to our friends and from there to our community of diverse and yet still like-minded fellow citizens. We still find common ground as we form states and countries, however, recent times have shown that as a nation this commonality is strained and fragmented.
It is when these groups develop ideologies that the troubles really begin. My plan for economic growth is superior to your plan; therefore my group is willing to allow the complete collapse of our nation’s economy in order to stay true to our ideals. Or worse, my god is superior to your god; therefore my group will do everything in its power to wipe your group’s existence from the face of the earth. The necessity of compromise, which is so clear in relationships between brothers, disappears when we shroud ourselves in our ideological cloaks.
What we must remember in order to survive is that we are all brothers and sisters on this planet, and as such we have to learn how to deal with our differences. We need to remember how to compromise. Like the young wrestler, my brothers made me stronger. I think of them often, and miss them every day. But I am blessed to have found other brothers, not biologically connected, but with a connection based love, caring and respect. Poets, priests and philosophers have told us that all men are our brothers. It’s time to remember those simple words, and take them to heart.
Wrestler Sam (right) and his "brother" wrestler
as they head to the state tournament
My brothers and me from long ago
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