One of my early memories of my brother involves sports. I rooted for the Mets just to annoy him; he liked the Yankees. I told him I knew they were in different “leagoos” (leagues). He would steal all my Spauldings to play baseball.
I interviewed some of the New York Yankees in college for a report, one of my most proud moments. Fred read my paper and told me he did not realize I knew so much about baseball. I learned so much from him.
I mentioned in the eulogy that I dislike football because Fred used to tackle me. To this day I wonder why he could not find anything better to do. Every time I heard him shout, “Tackle!” I would cringe. And down I would go.
And the irony is that he is the one who fell. Tackled by MS.
He ran 10 miles a day prior to his burden. He inspired me to love jogging. The day he told me about the M.S., I went out to run, not jog.
Had M.S. affected a less active man, the misery would not have been as profound. One of the final visits to his apartment, we witnessed wall paintings he had created, perhaps in an effort to express creativity, perhaps pain. Losing something of great value like one's independence certainly can take its toll.
But now my sister and I dream of him walking, even running. And the sisters and nurses by his side upon his moment of death say he passed away with a smile.
He ran into my parents’ arms. He runs again.
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