I made a phone call this afternoon, the same call that I've made for 50 years. Today is my brother Bill's birthday and just like he does in August, we ring our only brother on his celebrated day.
Bill is eight and a half years older than I am. Since my high school years I don't think we have ever been together on our birthdays. Our entire adult life has never found us living less than a six or seven hour drive from one another.
The previous paragraph might suggest that we could lack the closeness that many siblings have, but I have never felt that way and I don't think Bill has either. My big brother has ALWAYS held a large presence in my life, especially when I've stumbled and couldn't or wouldn't ask for help.
His sense of responsibility to family comes with few words and little fanfare, but with a directness that never leaves anyone wondering what he's thinking.
"Mike" and Bill at our parents' home. My mom always told me that when the decision-making process was in full swing regarding what to name the youngest Pransky boy my eight-year-old brother chimed in, "I don't care what you call him, I'm calling him Mike." I don't remember those initial days of life very well, but I imagine he did call me Mike for a while. Evidently, he had enough influence that somehow my middle name is Michael.
My brother was a 1965 graduate of Otto-Eldred High School. I've written almost 100 blog stories in 4-5 years and most of them have at least a partial sports connection and so does my brother's.
Bill played youth league baseball for Coryville (little league and Babe Ruth). I recall my mother had to dye some of his white t-shirts green for his Babe Ruth uniform top.
My brother's baseball career was significant for two major reasons. It launched my dad's love for baseball, a game he never played as a youngster, but loved every level of it for the rest of his life.
And, I'm sure my first game of catch was with Bill.
I also remember fondly that my brother's teenage years consisted of quarterbacking while I ran pass patterns (fly, button hook, button hook and go, sideline, post). I'm sure they have more technical names now, but no one had more fun than I did.
We played wiffle ball, home run derby and Bill was my first catcher as I learned how to pitch. I was six-years-old and Bill was 14, but he never turned down a request to play ball with me. He didn't became frustrated at my overthrows or give me one of those, "Hey, just leave me alone," or "get lost," or any of those comments that are easy for a big brother to throw at the little guy who always seems to be in the way. We never argued or disagreed.
Bill's favorite sport was basketball and he didn't even mind when on a special occasion his little brother tagged along, lugging his scrapbook to an O-E practice and securing as many autographs as possible.
Bill was awarded the prestigious Jody Wolcott Award as a senior. The honor was given to a graduating student who best represented the qualities of an athlete, scholar and gentleman.
Some O-E names from the classes of 1965 and 1966.
Jeff Wolcott (Jody's older brother) was the leading scorer on that '65 O-E team.
Bill and I only played together a couple of times, but they remain memorable to me. He came home from college for the summer and we drove up to the high school to shoot some hoops in the court/ parking lot on the backside of the building. We eventually played a couple of young varsity players in a two on two game. Bill was 20 or 21 and I was 12 or 13 and had just concluded seventh grade and we beat them. That definitely was a highlight of my young sports career.
Years later, as Bill's two sons were beginning their competitive basketball experiences and the elder Pransky brothers were beginning to feel the years, we would play the boys in one game to ten baskets whenever we could get together.
Although approaching the 35-40 year-old barrier, first Bill and then me, the old guys had the edge. The boys were separated by only two years and despite having the jumping and athleticism advantage they hadn't quite developed the teamwork part of the game yet and their ultra-determined will to beat their dad and uncle was so strong it acted as an albatross.
Bill and I also knew that we could always win one game, but we always called it quits after that game. "Wait 'til next year."
Next year came four or five times and then somehow the two on two games stopped being held. Some foul play was claimed, but never proven.
My dad taught my brother and I the same useful skills that would help us as we gained responsibility as we grew older. Car maintenance-changing the oil, rotating and changing tires and how to use and then properly return the tools to their proper place on the workbench was rightly very important to my father. The same was true with checking and repairing household items. Bill, in fact, helped my folks build the home where they lived for almost 40 years. He was 13 and carrying shingles and I was 5 and driving a go-kart Dad made for me.
My dad was an avid sportsman and loved hunting and fishing. He taught both of us. Bill loved hunting and continues to enjoy it. The high schools in his area have archery teams and he loves coaching the kids.
I always enjoyed trout fishing, but somehow all the other lessons were too soon forgotten. I wished they hadn't vanished-I guess I never really learned them.
Bill and I didn't have too many of the same teachers at O-E, but I do remember Mr. Lehoskey, our industrial arts teacher, asking me on day one if I was "Big Bill's" brother. Bill, a future mechanical engineer, was skilled in all the aspects of design, building a couple of his future homes.
I think Mr. Lehoskey anticipated that he had another budding engineer. It took only two classes for him to change his mind. He was a baseball fan though, so we always had something fun to talk about in later years,
My brother's engineering degree directed him to several different residences in Clarion (Pa.), Atlanta, New Orleans and both northern and southern Ohio-all for the same company for thirty plus years.
There was a period of time when he did some extensive international travel for work. I don't think he told my folks where or when he was going. They might have worried about some of the destinations. I just always assumed that-I never knew either.
As I write this, I'm sitting directly in front of my music cabinet that holds about 200 vinyl albums- a combination of my wife, Grace's, and mine. Actually, half of mine were (are) Bill's. Some people wonder why I have so many LP's by "The Animals," "Four Seasons," "The Beach Boys," and, of course, "The Beatles" among others- lots of surf music too. Thanks, Bill. The younger brother status does have many advantages.
The impetus for this writing came from three topics that seemingly have no association.
I saw a post last week on FB that mentioned it was National Siblings' Day. That's nice. I never knew there was a day for that, but okay.
Last weekend I watched "Field of Dreams," for the tenth time. I think there's a rule that if you live in Iowa, you have to watch it at least five times.
At the end of the movie Ray Kinsella suddenly thinks he realizes what the phrase "Ease his pain" means.
Ray, speaking to Shoeless Joe Jackson- "It was you."
Joe replies, "No, Ray. It was you."
The movie has many moving parts and if you asked someone what it's about you'd get multiple answers of baseball, Iowa, ghosts, the 60's, farming, chasing dreams, etc.
It does have a lot of twists and turns, but it's about family. Ray and his father. Ray, his wife and little girl. Doc Graham and his life as a doctor and husband. I'm reminded of my father, mother and hometown every time I watch it.
My wife Grace sitting on the porch swing at Ray Kinsella's house in Dyersville, Iowa. Yes, I ran the bases and walked into the corn. We live about an hour and a half from there.
National Siblings' Day, Field of Dreams and my brother's birthday.
Thanks Bill for holding us all together. And, thanks for always being there!
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