Jim is in his 50s, tall, thick, barrel built, with crushing hands, a bald head, a clear cadence to his voice and high level recall, the youngest of four brothers, the natural family historian. Jim smiles wide, and leans forward. He is the designated driver. Jim wears jeans and a sweater of polo type, has bright sparkling eyes that reflect the keen recollections of a clan’s curator.

Mike is not as tall, not near as thick, lean, with big snakey hands and wide puncher’s shoulders. He reminds me right off of Allen Hoyt, known as Stick in East Baltimore, a natural punching machine. Mike has a deep, low, mumble prone voice, and understated tone marking him as having been oft feared. Mike grins, sly and grim, attended by a pleasing lady glad to have his company. He dresses in jeans, black T-shirt and black leather jacket, with shoulder-length brown hair and a hawkish beak of a nose, cutting a rakish figure that in another age would mark the duelist.

Jim: I’m the youngest of five, Mike is the oldest, not the biggest.

[laughter]

Mike: And I can still beat your ass—all of you.

Jim: Always could—have to say though, that it got harder not easier as time went on.

Mike: That’s the truth, there. We wrestled, boxed, professional arm wrestling, pro wrestling—Rick did—and he did [Jim.] Cage too, that crazy shit.

Jim: There was Mike, made a name wrestling in school, got women, had fear and respect. Then there’s Carl, Rick, and myself. Our father, who could always kick all our asses until he hit seventy and always packed a pistol—he told us, you each pick a sport, one sport, and don’t quit, stick with it until the end of the year. If you don’t like it, try something else next year. Well, Mike wrestled. We wanted to be like Mike.

Mike: Good luck!

[laughter]

Jim: Rick was the strongest, a real beast.

Mike: He made Olympic alternate, didn’t get to wrestle in the Olympics. Was national champion.

Jim: Mike moved up in weight, just declared he’d wrestle higher, over his weight, so that Rick could wrestle.

Mike: I still won. [grinning]

Jim: Of course you won! [smiling] So Rick only ever loses to one man. Our father was at every match, always giving a hard time to the officials. They hated to see Our Father!

Mike: Motherfuckers knew, off the mat, in the world, he was the judge. He carried himself.

Jim: Oh, that he did! So, Rick is very hard on himself when he finally loses. Then I say to him, you know who that guy is you lost to, right?

Mike: Losing did not come easy for Rick—didn’t do enough of it to ever get used to it!

[laughter]

Jim: I tell Rick, look, that man you lost to, signing those shoes over there, that, is Dan Gable.

Mike: An honor that was—a good match.

Jim: We all loved fishing. We set a fishing date and we roll up and he doesn’t answer his door. Go inside, and he’s gone, stiff as a board. I had a toxicology report run on him and there was nothing, no alcohol, no weed. Rick liked to drink and smoke.

Mike: He must have been broke and his friends broke too—he liked his weed!

[laughter]

Jim: [looking dreamy-eyed up to the white ceiling as we six men sit around the living room] Such a good brother, so hard to lose. In six months we lost Rick, our sister and our father. That was a hard year.

Mike: Our sister used to have anxiety attacks.

Jim: She would have these anxiety attacks and it would raise her heart rate, and then she would calm down.

Mike: She has one, and as she’s coming down, right when she should be alright, she falls over and is gone.

Jim: Like that. It was terrible. Quick. [musing with hand under chin.]

Mike: You really thing asthma killed Rick?

Jim: Combined with sleep apthnea, it can be fatal. He always took care of his yard, had just cut the grass. What I think happened is he cut the grass, got stung by a bee and didn’t know it, and had an asthma attack in his sleep.

Mike: A damned bee—but that makes sense, even a honey bee that got blow off its clover by the lawn mower?

Jim: We had such a good family, such a life.

Mike: Still do, brother. I’m beating this cancer, commin’ back.

Jim: [smiling with a far away look] You know the cops have 82nd staked out, they’ll be pulling over everybody, and I’m sober.

Mike: Off to the kitchen for a toast, for them that’s here and those that aren’t.

To be continued in The Dog House and On TV.