Number 185

 My Hero Is a Doofus

When I was nine years old I was the first youngster chosen by Bruno's Liquor Store in the annual little league draft in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. I believe this happened in the spring of 1975. Interestingly enough, I was the first player chosen by ANY team. This is perversely funny. Let's count the ways: (1) A little league team sponsored by a liquor store; (2) Using a 'draft' to divide up young children among the various teams; and (3) Me getting selected first, because, and there's no way to sugar coat this, I sucked. In fact, I dropped the ball multiple times when it was thrown to me during the 'fielding' portion of the little league try-out. What the hell was the Bruno's brain trust thinking?

Well, it turns out that the previous year, my brother had torn up the (little) league. He was an excellent fielder, playing shortstop for his team. He also pitched. I don't know what his batting average was, but I believe it was north of .500. I would have been automatically assigned to his team were he were still on it, but he had aged-out and moved up to the next level of play. I wonder what the Bruno's manager thought when they realized they'd chosen the kid who liked to pick dandelions out in right field (while desperately hoping that no one would hit a fly ball in their direction).

Still, a part of me was impressed by my brother's athletic prowess. To this day, I've never beaten him in any sort of athletic competition. Unless you count miniature golf. (Which I do.)

Of course, he used to torture the hell out of me while we were growing up. At the time we were all operating under the assumption that I was his kid brother, so of course he used any occasion he could to either beat the snot out of, or mentally torture me. Sometimes both. One of his favorite tricks was to grab me by the wrist, use my hand to hit me, and then ask nonchalantly, "Why are you hitting yourself." Another favorite was to hold me immobile on the ground, while he let long strings of saliva hang down over my face. (To which he still, if reminded of this brutal demonstration of sibling affection, and I absolutely guarantee this, responds by saying "I never let one drop, though.") 

I learned to get in the cheapest shot I could, and then run like hell for the nearest room with a door that locked. Sometimes I made it. Sometimes I didn't.

Isn't it obvious by now that he became my hero?

By the time he enrolled at Ohio State, our frequent sibling skirmishes had begun to fade into the past. Now, I looked forward to visiting him, especially in the fall, when he would score a couple of seats to a Buckeye football game. One year he managed to get tickets to the Michigan game. It was there, while sitting in the raucous student section, that I learned the 'alternative' lyrics to the Michigan fight song. Then there was that time that he rescued me after I'd totaled my car in an automobile accident in upstate New York. That I was traveling with my soon-to-be ex-fiancé adds a whole level of heroism to his presence. When I got married, he was my first and only choice for best man. When Rebecca died in the blink of an eye, he showed up the next day even though he lived 14 hours away. He dropped everything and was there at the precise moment I needed him most. When I told him I was a transgender woman, he looked at me with confused wonderment, but he never, not even for a second, disowned or failed to accept me.

So why is he a "doofus?," I can hear some of you asking. Good question. You see, in many ways my brother and I are nothing alike - even though we were both produced from the exact same genetic sources, and raised by the same two parents. He took after the tall and skinny part of the family, I took after the short and squat part. He has brown eyes and mine are blue. When he had hair, it was straight. I still have hair, and it's a curly mess. He was naturally athletic and I was not. I was interested in music, and he was not. Maybe all these differences are less compelling since my transgender identity came to light. Maybe not. But they certainly illustrate that we are very much two different people.

Perhaps the biggest difference between us is our relative comfort with being emotionally vulnerable. I'll tell anyone who's willing to listen about my mental health struggles with depression and anxiety. I'm a fierce advocate for counseling, and think everyone would be better off if they had a therapist to talk to. My brother? Not so much. He has always kept his own counsel, and is very reluctant to talk about his 'feelings.' In my exasperated mind, that makes him a doofus. His hesitancy to discuss any emotionally fraught (usually family related) issue can be quite maddening. But there's nothing that can be done about it at this point. I just kind of shake my head at his obstinate refusal to go deep.

But he has my back. Always. He's just... there. His wife and daughters will tell you the same thing. He is the most dependable, reliant person I've ever known. Our mother will tell you this, so will our sister. His grandchildren, his grandmother, his aunts & uncles, his nieces & nephews, his friends, his work colleagues, and on and on and on will tell you this. He will be there. Maybe he's not the most emotionally sophisticated person, but in the long run that doesn't matter, because whenever I need him, I know he will be there.

My brother is my hero, and I love him very much. The big doofus.