Steve always had a special relationship with dogs and there were many "Primos" throughout his life. Contrast this with cats, which, in his younger years at least, he hated. "Stupidest animals on the planet" he would scoff. I loved cats equal to dogs and resisted his characterization so he elaborated, "God gave cats too many physical gifts, no room for brains." He really did not like cats, which struck me as odd at the time. Later I understood it to be linked with the solitary nature of cats. Dogs were pack animals, and Steve loved packs.
And not just dog packs. Another quality that his teenage years impressed on me was his very own pack of high school buddies. Rebels, clowns, carousers, sports-teammates, Steve was the unofficial leader of a "gang", his very own "dog pack."
I was too young to join in their adventures, but he would often bring them all back to our house, hiding out in the distant homemade basketball court at the far end of our property where they would drink beer and tell hilarious stories of their exploits.
While they were rebels and troublemakers, dedicated to mocking and "biting their thumbs" at the status quo, there always was an enchanting Robin Hood quality to what they would do. If they took someone to task, that person typically deserved it. Destruction usually took place, but always directed at the soulless banality of suburban life and the "here's how you should live" morality of advertisers. From top to bottom, "fun" seemed to be what they were aiming at, and fun usually came, in Steve's world, from doing something unexpected or extraordinary, or at least ludicrous. He was the leader of the pack because he was the initiator and had that perfect way of breaking ordinary guys out of boring routine and into adventure.
In the recounting (which is all I heard), I vividly remember how Steve would make sure each member of the pack would have a moment to shine. For example, after an adventure creating some kind of chaos at a local bowling alley (bowling water balloons filled with yoghurt or something), some member of the pack would be laughingly telling his story for a while then Steve would interject
"And then Boelmann shouted Jesus Christ!" and howl with laughter. The conversation would fly off in another direction until Steve would interject again,
"That's when Pasquarella took off his shirt!" and more howls of laughter.
I rarely remember Steve talking about himself, but he would make sure each member of the pack had his moment to shine in the story, so they all would become legends of their own particular fable. He loved the group and the total experience of togetherness and I suppose that is what made him the natural leader. Fun was about sharing the fun, and it was his calling to draw a group together and make sure each member felt totally included. By denying his own importance he gave space to the others to make the experience their own. He was always such an unneedy person that he was "psyched" to give himself fully to you.
For example, around the same time, he could tell I was loving baseball from watching a lot of games on TV with my Dad. So he set up a part of our back yard as a mini Fenway park. The grassy lawn became the infield. The dry tracks beyond the hedges was the outfield and the large fences bordering the horse area was the Green Monster. Knowing that I was a 10 year old kid dreaming of baseball glory like I had seen on TV, he would play against me just hard enough to make me think he was trying, but he would always make sure I won, punctuating the thrill by playing the "announcer" that recreated the sense of the game with me being the star. I remember it being hugely satisfying and fun and I left our games with the distinct feeling of, "Damn, I am good!" I recall one day boasting to my Dad,
"Hey Dad, I beat Steve in wiffle ball today 7 to 3!"
Dad replied, "Good job, but I think you've got a pretty nice brother too."
That was Steve. Taking infinitely from himself, and giving it to others. Often going so far to trick them into thinking what they did came out of themselves. As long as it made them happy, he was happy too.
He was the alpha of the pack.
And not just dog packs. Another quality that his teenage years impressed on me was his very own pack of high school buddies. Rebels, clowns, carousers, sports-teammates, Steve was the unofficial leader of a "gang", his very own "dog pack."
I was too young to join in their adventures, but he would often bring them all back to our house, hiding out in the distant homemade basketball court at the far end of our property where they would drink beer and tell hilarious stories of their exploits.
While they were rebels and troublemakers, dedicated to mocking and "biting their thumbs" at the status quo, there always was an enchanting Robin Hood quality to what they would do. If they took someone to task, that person typically deserved it. Destruction usually took place, but always directed at the soulless banality of suburban life and the "here's how you should live" morality of advertisers. From top to bottom, "fun" seemed to be what they were aiming at, and fun usually came, in Steve's world, from doing something unexpected or extraordinary, or at least ludicrous. He was the leader of the pack because he was the initiator and had that perfect way of breaking ordinary guys out of boring routine and into adventure.
In the recounting (which is all I heard), I vividly remember how Steve would make sure each member of the pack would have a moment to shine. For example, after an adventure creating some kind of chaos at a local bowling alley (bowling water balloons filled with yoghurt or something), some member of the pack would be laughingly telling his story for a while then Steve would interject
"And then Boelmann shouted Jesus Christ!" and howl with laughter. The conversation would fly off in another direction until Steve would interject again,
"That's when Pasquarella took off his shirt!" and more howls of laughter.
I rarely remember Steve talking about himself, but he would make sure each member of the pack had his moment to shine in the story, so they all would become legends of their own particular fable. He loved the group and the total experience of togetherness and I suppose that is what made him the natural leader. Fun was about sharing the fun, and it was his calling to draw a group together and make sure each member felt totally included. By denying his own importance he gave space to the others to make the experience their own. He was always such an unneedy person that he was "psyched" to give himself fully to you.
For example, around the same time, he could tell I was loving baseball from watching a lot of games on TV with my Dad. So he set up a part of our back yard as a mini Fenway park. The grassy lawn became the infield. The dry tracks beyond the hedges was the outfield and the large fences bordering the horse area was the Green Monster. Knowing that I was a 10 year old kid dreaming of baseball glory like I had seen on TV, he would play against me just hard enough to make me think he was trying, but he would always make sure I won, punctuating the thrill by playing the "announcer" that recreated the sense of the game with me being the star. I remember it being hugely satisfying and fun and I left our games with the distinct feeling of, "Damn, I am good!" I recall one day boasting to my Dad,
"Hey Dad, I beat Steve in wiffle ball today 7 to 3!"
Dad replied, "Good job, but I think you've got a pretty nice brother too."
That was Steve. Taking infinitely from himself, and giving it to others. Often going so far to trick them into thinking what they did came out of themselves. As long as it made them happy, he was happy too.
He was the alpha of the pack.
Love this stuff Bronco.
ReplyDeleteI hope you'll keep writing more about Steve and your relationship with him, Brian. Here's a little something I wrote about your brother on my blog: http://www.2degreesofbob.com/the-list/201687-steve-edwards
ReplyDelete