Monday, June 24, 2013
With less than five years between us, while growing up, Mike was more my older brother than he was my uncle, and I worshiped him. In fact, we all did – my younger brothers and cousins. How we jockeyed for his attention. As only an older brother could, he taunted me with the Sandman, built pillow forts and had gun fights with me. He was the Rifleman, and I was Annie Oakley. We laughed together watching the Three Stooges. He taught me how to pan fry a hamburger to a crisp and how to love radishes in my salad. He taught me how swing a bat. He was always Mel Stottlemeyre and I always had to be the Met. He let me sit side-by-side listening to Phil Rizutto and the Yanks on his transistor radio. He let me hang around to watch him record every baseball stat reported. His every action taught me that the Yankees were to be loved unconditionally. I would never admit that I loved them only because Mike did – whatever Mike loved, I loved. At the time, he never said it, but I knew he must have loved me too because he let me drive his most prized new convertible before I had a license- Blood, Sweat and Tears and the Doobie Brother’s playing in the 8-track. Just hanging around him, I felt special.
Maggie, Dave and Matt, words are entirely inadequate to express how deeply sad I feel and how inadequately I understand what Mike went through this past year and what you endured to get him through it. But I do know that you brought Mike such great happiness. He was utterly devoted to you and he worshiped you. I do know something of your grief - the weight of it. And, my heart knows what your heart knows: we have all lost what is irreplaceable. I can only hope that one day soon the weight of this sadness will be lifted and in its place, only the love, the laughter and the happiness we shared with him will continue to live on in all our hearts.
Love, Deb
