Canzano: The Summer of Brotherly Love

What's the role of a brother?

Ben is my younger brother. (Photo: Naji Saker)

My younger brother is an adaptive physical education specialist. He also coaches high school football. He pulled out of my driveway on Saturday morning in a pick-up truck and headed for home. He has an 11-hour drive ahead of him, and football practice starts next week.

Two of his three children were in the cab with him. The bed of the truck was loaded with duffel bags, suitcases, and a desk he bought on Facebook Marketplace during his week-long visit. As he drove off, I watched a furniture blanket he’d draped over the desk and anchored with straps flap in the breeze.

“I should have tied that blanket down better,” I thought.

I’m always excited when my brother arrives. My heart sinks when he leaves. I’ve decided over the years that this is a good trend. If you have annual family visits, maybe you understand.

Ben is five years younger than I am. I remember the day he was born. He didn’t come home from the hospital right away. He was jaundiced. Doctors kept him in an incubator for a few days to be certain his liver was functioning properly.

The first time I saw my little brother was through a glass window at the hospital nursery. He was quiet and still. His newborn skin had a yellow tint. It wasn’t how I’d imagined our first meeting would go, but I remember thinking that I couldn’t wait to hang out with the kid.

We built forts and played Wiffle Ball and football in the backyard with our two sisters. My brother and I collected baseball and football cards together. We looked like brothers. We played brothers. But there were differences.

He was meticulous and organized, for example. I was not. He hung his school clothes on hangers in the closet. I stuffed mine in drawers. He rooted for Walter Payton. I was a Joe Montana fan. In the first grade, Ben wore a suit to school for class photos. I did not. In the sixth grade, he let me borrow $20 and charged me $5 interest, payable in a week.

I paid the juice, and was secretly proud of his entrepreneurial spirit. His interest rate on those short-term loans was 1,300 percent. I figured he might grow up to be a loan shark or work in finance. Instead, he went to college, and his giant heart won out.

My brother works with children, particularly those born with challenges and who need extra help. He’s compassionate, driven, focused, and determined. He spends his time and energy advocating for kids who have special needs.

Like a lot of public school educators, he’s working within a broken system and stuck in a relentless daily tug-of-war. But every morning, he jogs back to the front line because those kids desperately need him there, pulling on the rope alongside them.

Last year, my little brother was named Educator of the Year in his region. There was a big ceremony. Ben wore a suit and tie. He gave an inspired speech. I was proud. Mostly because I know he overcame a series of learning disabilities as a kid and has dedicated his professional life to helping others.

Camp Exceptional is a week-long sports-themed summer camp we put on every summer in Oregon. It features kids with challenges and “typical” kids together on teams. College and high school athletes work alongside the campers. Ben takes the lead role. A special education co-worker of his, Todd Jacobs, is the camp co-director.

Jacobs served eight years in the United States Army. He was a specialist in the 82nd Airborne. He’s the hype guy. The event has a high degree of difficulty. But it hums along like a symphony every summer. I love watching it in action.

Campers at Camp Exceptional played a variety of sports this week. (Photos: Naji Saker)

I don’t know if you’ve ever gone to work with your little brother, but the first time I saw Ben step in alongside Jacobs and lead 100-plus kids with a variety of challenges and skill levels through a team-building exercise, I nearly fell over.

I write a sports column and host a radio show.

Those guys are making better human beings.

We’ve watched several Camp Exceptional campers grow up, age out of the camp at 15 years old, and come back as volunteer team leaders. Portland State football players show up all week to help, every year. The Vikings men’s basketball team always picks one day to come out, too. This year, football players and coaches from Linfield University, Lewis and Clark, La Salle High School, and Nelson High School volunteered as well. It’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.

We were a highly involved sports family when I was a kid. My brother and two sisters competed on several teams in different sports. It’s what we did. Ben went to community college in California and became an All-American wide receiver. He played through multiple concussions during his sophomore season. Five concussions? Six, maybe? Times were different. He’d catch a pass, take a big hit, wobble to the sideline, and go right back in the game. I wasn’t upset when he decided not to play beyond that last season.

That’s part of an older sibling’s job, isn’t it?

Being a protector?

Serving as a life coach?

Harper Lee gave us Jem and Scout Finch, who learned the world around them together. Dostoevsky provided the Karamazov brothers. Catcher in the Rye gave us the gift of Holden and Phoebe Caulfield. I know the script. I also know brotherhood isn’t always elegant. There’s some grit in it.

I’m a sportswriter, so I’ll draw a sports-related parallel here. I interviewed former heavyweight boxing champion Larry Holmes several years ago. During the prime of his career, Holmes fought an aging Muhammad Ali. Ali was his role model and mentor. He’d taken Holmes in as a sparring partner, trained him, and taught him how to be a champion. They were like brothers.

Late in their title fight, Holmes found himself tied up with the defenseless Ali in a corner. Holmes told me he was near tears in the ring. He leaned into Ali and said, “I’m sorry, champ. I’m so sorry,” as he threw body punches.

Holmes said, “I didn’t want to hurt the guy.”

My brother and I squared off once. He was maybe 15, and I was 19 or 20. We were arguing in the hallway of our parents’ house. He threw the first punch, a right hook. It caught me squarely on the cheek. I went to throw a punch back, but realized something profound, mid-punch.

It was acceptable (and maybe encouraged) for the little brother to slug away, but what big brother ever really hits back? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I just wrapped my arms around him, hugged him tight, and we wrestled to the ground. We both got up with glassy eyes. That was that. We never fought again — ever. The world is a cruel enough place. Maybe we realized in that moment that we were the fiercest of allies.

My brother is selfless.

He’s also relentless.

He woke at 5 a.m. daily in the last week, drove himself to the camp in the dark, and started setting up equipment on the field. Not for his own children. Not in his own school district. Not even in the state he lives in.

He did it for a bunch of other people’s children.

It’s what Ben does, and it makes me want to do anything for him. It probably explains why I was fixated on that furniture blanket flapping in the breeze as he drove off.

I should have tied it down better.

---

I appreciate all who support, subscribe, and share this independent endeavor with friends and family. If you haven’t already — please consider subscribing and gifting a subscription to someone who would enjoy it.

This is an independent reader-supported project with both free and paid subscriptions. Those who opt for the paid edition are providing vital assistance to bolster my independent coverage.