Bruddas, Part II:
A Tribute to Jeff
"Growing up, he was my 'hero' brother. It's hard to be at war with your hero - peace is much better. We got there."
Jeff (the second of my three older brothers) died in 2015 within 20 months of our oldest, Mickey.
It was right down on the corner near Dizzy Whizz on St. Catherine Street that we had our last hug goodbye.
"Be careful," he told me, nodding to the streets around us. I had to laugh as I began to walk away.
"Don't worry," I said over my shoulder, "this ain't Sedgwick Avenue. Love ya!"
"Love ya!" he responded. Bruddas.
Jeff (pictured above with me at a local Old Louisville street fair) was the third of the six siblings; the ravages of cancer finally had their way. Even though I wasn't at his bedside when he went, we were cool. After all, it was God who stitched our relationship as brothers back together - love and war aren't just words.
I'm not sure why I'm thinking about him today - perhaps because he would've had a birthday coming up next week, maybe not. I know I could've used him around a lot this past decade since he's gone.
My appreciation of Marvel comics and prog rock came from Jeff. Come to recall, tennis and golf, too - go figure, two kids from The Bronx. I would've never read Durango Street if it weren't for him. He was normally the first one to suggest two-on-one street football with me and our brother, Tim...no matter the season, and night games weren't out of the question.
Every day I look at that picture of me and Jeff at the street fair and think of the Twin Towers (what we used to call ourselves when playing any other victims in 2-on-2 basketball), I can't help but smile, miss him, and think that losses matter in the ledgers of life.
One time I beat him and Tim 1-on-2 in ping pong. After I bested the two of them, I bent down to pick up the ping pong ball off the floor, unbeknownst to me that Jeff had launched, in brotherly anger, his ping pong paddle across the table and right in aim with my raising head. It left quite the knot - and Mom wasn't too thrilled (yes, she still spanked us when we teenagers).
Growing up, he was my "hero" brother. It's hard to be at war with your hero - peace is much better. We got there - but there was so much of the story that life had to slog us through in order for those pages to be written before he left.
There was something about him that everyone in his orbit - from childhood on as I observed as a younger brother - couldn't help but gravitate towards, even if out of nothing more than curious inertia as to what he'd do or say or get himself out of next.
More will be revealed...