I was about 5-years-old when I thought I spotted Reggie Jackson in the Westbury, N.Y. branch of Emigrant Bank. So I approached him, and asked.
“Are you Reggie Jackson?”
In 1979, my family had moved from Connecticut to Long Island. This was at the height of Reggie fever, which even included his own candy bar, the Reggie Bar. I remember seeing Reggie, the Yankees’ slugging outfielder, always on the news, for hitting World Series home runs or his manager, Billy Martin, or feuding with the team’s owner, George Steinbrenner.
Alas, it was not Reggie Jackson, but a random black man in a sharp looking suit, who I ignorantly assumed must be Reggie Jackson, to my mother’s complete embarrassment.
I recount this story to shed some light on what, or how, “celebrity” appeared or seemed to me as a young boy.
I was also about this age when I realized I already knew a real-life “celebrity” in the form of my Uncle Tommy.
Tommy was my mother’s youngest brother, 14 years her junior, born in 1961, her freshman year of high school.
In 1966, my mother, at age 19, would marry my father, when Tommy was just 5. My sister, Lorraine, was born two years later in May 1968, and my brother, Paul, two years after that in September of 1970. Just three years after that, my mom and Tommy’s father, passed away from cancer. Tommy had just turned 10.
Tommy spent a lot of time with my mother and father, sister, and brother. Although “Uncle” Tommy, he was more like an older brother to them.
Finally, on May 19th 1976, I was born. It also happened to be my Uncle Tom’s 15th birthday. Yes, we shared the same birthday. How cool was that?
As a young boy, I idolized my Uncle Tommy. He was a Paul Bunyan-esque character, someone I looked up to, which I already did thanks to his 6-foot-5 frame.
In a word, he was just “cool.”
He smoked cigarettes. He had a girlfriend. He always had a girlfriend. He could draw. He had a tattoo. He gave me a tattoo (with a Paper Mate flair tip pen).
He also had a cool bedroom, which included sliding glass doors out to the back porch of my grandmother’s house. Speakers that seemed as tall as me, connected to his turntable, where he blasted vinyl albums by Rush, Led Zeppelin, and Yes.
He wore out the bottoms of his Converse sneakers until they were smooth, except for a few blisters of rubber that had popped up. And I’d be lying if I said I never stood in the street dragging my sneakers across the asphalt to try and make mine resemble his.
He drove a tiny, blue Datsun 280Z, which he could barely fit into, and yet I would eagerly squish into the backseat, next to the wood block speakers directly above my head, and stare on in amazement as he played Neil Peart’s drum fills on “Tom Sawyer” perfectly along the car’s dashboard. (I never hear Rush’s “Tom Sawyer” without thinking of my Uncle Tom.)
He eventually moved to Florida to attend college. When he did come home, around the holidays or during the summer, excitement grew at his impending arrival. When he called on the phone, I would wait patiently, standing next to my mom, until I had a chance to speak with him.
As I grew older our relationship grew too. A friendship blossomed between us.
One New Year’s Eve, he babysat us when my mother went out for the night. We decided to rent a movie. He picked The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I think it was February until I got a good night’s sleep.
In 1988, my family moved down to Florida, where Tommy was now living with his wife, Janine. Our family game nights were filled raucous laughter playing Pictionary (my brother learned what a “candelabra” was one night after drawing a candle + a bra as the clue; there was also great confusion once between “dairy” and “diary”), he took me to play basketball at the park, and even rounds of Nintendo. It was hard for me to fathom the fact my Uncle Tom wasn’t able to knock out Mike Tyson.1
He took me to my first college football game, at the University of Florida, his alma mater. He also took me golfing for the first time, a game I enjoy to this day. He showed an exorbitant amount of patience that day, as anyone who has ever gone out with a new golfer can attest to.
There are so many funny stories involving my uncle.
One time he was visiting us in our Virginia town house, when my mother treated him to Anita’s, a nearby Mexican restaurant. Tommy always enjoyed hot and spicy food.
After dinner, he and I headed to the mall for some shopping.
As we walked around the stores, Tommy began passing gas. Noxious fumes. The entire men’s clothing department would be enveloped in only a matter of seconds.
I remember us standing at a store directory in the middle of the concourse, when he surreptitiously dropped another bomb. Walking up behind us, an innocent old man coming, we gave each other a look and ducked into a nearby store and watched as the poor man unknowingly walked into the stench.
By the time my mother came home that night, both floors of the town house smelled putrid. I had taken cover in my mother’s bedroom with a can of Glade air spray. Tommy’s laughter filled what room was left in the air.
My uncle Tom told me another funny story, a memory he had of driving in the car with my father and mother, when my father ran over a skunk. The car’s interior filled with the skunk’s odor. Overpowering my father’s senses, he had to pull over the car and let it air out before continuing the trip.
There was also an “accident” Tommy had at work, which forced him to remove his underwear and discard it in the trash. As time went on, employees and customers began to notice a bad smell throughout the store. Tommy had struck again!
There was more to Tommy than bathroom humor and fart jokes, however.
He enjoyed and excelled at photography, a passion he picked up as an adult. He even turned his hobby into a chance to travel to Europe with a group of Philadelphia Eagles fans, to document their experience, when the team played overseas.
He also enjoyed music, and playing the guitar.
An introvert by nature, I will always remember him sitting on the couch, enjoying a cup of coffee, leafing through a photography magazine. He enjoyed his quiet time.
I will also fondly remember watching the 1995 and 1996 NBA playoffs with him. It was appointment TV for the two of us, both rooting for Michael Jordan and the Bulls. Jordan came up short in ‘95 following his brief retirement and foray into baseball, but regained his and the Bulls’ championship form in ‘96.
He and his wife were also a saving grace to me.
In 1993, living back down in Florida with my mother and sister, I was in a deep depression. That was when Tommy and Janine offered to let me live with them, and my two cousins — Lauren and Daniel — to complete my senior year of high school. A third child, Aeberli, would be born three years later.
It was an offer that changed and has impacted my life forever. I met Gary, one of my best friends (and co-host of my podcast), and although I didn’t know her at the time, my wife also attended the same high school, a jumping-off point when we finally did meet eight years later.
I realize now, as an adult, a married man, and a father, that inviting another person into your life, especially a 17-year-old, is not always the easiest thing to do, but I immediately and always felt welcomed and loved my aunt and uncle.
Over those two years of living with him, we got to spend more time together and make more memories.
He took me to an airshow, where I got to take photographs of World War II era planes; we made a trip to Pocono Speedway for an Indy car race, where we got to tour the pits; and played softball for the Jaycees, including a funny incident neither of us could believe, when a teammate ripped the shirt off a teammates chest in a fit of anger.
He also showed a 17-year-old version of me about how to be a man. How to be a husband, a father, a provider for his young family.
I received a message from my uncle on Facebook last Sunday, for our birthdays. I responded in kind, wishing him a happy birthday.
Apparently, he hadn’t been feeling well all weekend. On Monday, he suffered cardiac arrest. By Wednesday afternoon, he was dead. He was 63.
It’s hard for me to imagine. Such a giant presence throughout my life, now suddenly gone.
There won’t be any more birthdays to share with him, but there also won’t be one when I don’t think of him.
And the world just seems less cool now.
I was with my Uncle Tom in a bowling alley on the night Buster Douglas knocked out Tyson. Word spread quickly from lane to lane as the unthinkable happened that night in the Tokyo Dome.
You write so eloquently, and a beautiful tribute to your Uncle Tom. I always remember your mom telling me that your Uncle was coming for a visit on Manchester.
Yours is a wonderful gift from God Brian, and say hello to your wife and Lorraine,
Kindest regards, carol Molloy
No words, just tears. I also messaged with him on Sunday. Tommy was 2 years my junior and like a second brother to Bernadette & I.