During the past few weeks I have begun the process of
grieving the loss of my big brother. I have written of him a couple of times in
this blog. He was one of the most significant people in my life. Several times
each day I find myself overcome with grief. A simple commercial on television
manages to touch me somewhere deep inside and if find myself weeping. Cheesy
movies get the tears flowing. And when that happens, I really irritate myself.
Though, as a pastoral counselor, I have studied the grieving
process and walked through it several times with others, I am surprised how
difficult I am finding dealing with losing my brother. I understand the
dynamics but hate the process. Because my brother and I have lived in different
states for several years and only saw each other occasionally, I am surprised at
the depth of my grief. It would seem I would have gotten used to not having him
around. But, of course, the travel time connected to death is a bit more
challenging than an eight hour car trip. He is no longer a phone call away. He
is no longer “there.”
My brother impacted my life in many ways. It is my
theory that I am naturally right handed but became left handed by copying him. When
he was in college he went to a local pawn shop in Columbus and purchased a used
Martin guitar. He brought it home and started teaching me. So, of course, I learned
to play a left handed guitar – I guitar strung upside down from a right handed
model. Playing left handed means I can’t pick up just any old guitar and start
playing. Years later he quit playing the guitar. I asked him where the Martin
guitar was and he told me he had given it away. That was one of the few times I
seriously considered fratricide. He GAVE AWAY A LEFT HANDED MARTIN GUITAR!!!
I played baseball because he played baseball. I loved
playing baseball and was pretty good at it. He was amazing at it. I have yet to
see a pitcher, professional or amateur, who could throw a baseball like he
could. He was fast, very fast, and could throw a fastball, a curve, a split-finger
fastball, a change of pace, a slider and a knuckleball. His other advantage was
that he was just a little wild. He was just wild enough to keep the opposing batters
from really digging in. You did not want to be hit by one of his pitches. Trust
me on that. I was and I still carry the scars. While in high school I watched
him pitch 12 innings of no hit ball. Unfortunately for Bob, the rest of the
team was as poor at hitting as I was. It took us 12 innings to finally score a
run. When he took the mound the players on the other team wilted. After watching
the side being retired in the first inning, they knew the game was over.
Though my parents may not have felt this way, I often
sensed that they were a bit judgmental of me and what I did. Their approval did
not come easily. Being one of many children, my brothers and sisters tended to
not pay that much attention to me… except Bob. Bob was my number one fan. He
didn’t have any difficultly telling me when he didn’t agree with something I said
or did. He was not a Pollyanna when it came to me. But he was definitely my
biggest fan. On those rare occasions that I did something right or well, Bob
was all over it. He was always more excited about my successes than I. He was
excited when he had a book published. He was thrilled when I had one published.
He was pleased when he pitched a no hitter. He was ecstatic when I hit a home
run. He has delighted when he scored the highest mark on the math entrance exam
in the history of Ohio State University. I thought he was going to stroke out
when I won election as the Student Body President at Eastern Kentucky
University. In his eyes, my successes were greater than his successes. He
really believed that. He was wrong, but that is how he really felt.
Often, in our conversations during that last couple of
years of his life, Bob would tell me how proud he was of me. I was always
touched by his pride in me. I never really understood it, but I appreciated it.
This was from a person who knew me well and loved me, warts and all. He wasn’t
viewing me through rose colored glasses – he was just seeing me through his
eyes. I don’t think he saw me correctly, but I loved the way he saw me.
My brother Bob died. My fan base has been greatly diminished.
And I am grieving.
Copyright © 2013, William T. McConnell, All Rights
Reserved
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