Oh, Precious Life

By Brian McLane

As Bonnie Raitt once sang, “Life gets mighty precious when there’s less of it to waste.”

Believe me, when you’ve spent the bulk of your days in a wheelchair, and now spend pretty much every waking moment secure in the knowledge that your body is slowly breaking down on you – a body that, mind you, your parents were once told wouldn’t last thirty years – to my way of thinking that line from Raitt’s little gem, “Nick of Time,” is a truth as cold and hard as polished steel.

But that’s also why I can say without a doubt one of the best weekends I’ve spent in ages I spent two weeks ago in, of all places, Indiana. I’d traveled to the Hoosier State to watch my beloved Syracuse Orange go down in flames in the NCAA quarterfinals against a tough and physical University of Houston team.

Now, many of you might think it strange I’d actually enjoy a weekend in which my Orange lost such an important game – a game that, despite the relative closeness of the score, they never really felt close to winning. But here’s why. The whole weekend I was with my brother, Terry, who’d driven over from Missouri to join me.

Terry, as you may know, is not only my little brother and best friend. He’s part of me, a combination hero, antagonist, rival and inspiration – all rolled into one. I suppose it would be easy to call him Robin to my Batman, except between the two of us, I’m not so sure he’s not Batman.

Now, a little background.

One of the oldest items on our mutual “brothers bucket list” has always been to attend an NCAA Final Four together. And years ago, Terry and I were this close to making it happen. I’d arrived in New Orleans the day prior, and he already was in the air, when we got the news. Our oldest brother Kevin had just died, unexpectedly. I packed immediately and Terry never even bothered to unpack or even leave the airport. He simply got off the plane and exchanged his return ticket for one on the next flight home.

That’s as close as we ever got to going to a Final Four together – that is, until two weeks ago.  And, yes, it wasn’t a Final Four, but who cares?

I was with my brother.

I had a delicious giant ribeye, cooked medium rare, and a rare (at least for me) cocktail from St. Elmo’s in Indianapolis, one of the truly great American steakhouses.

I ran into a bunch of old friends I hadn’t seen since this crazy pandemic turned us all into hibernating bears, including S.U. Athletic Director, John Wildhack, Jim Boeheim’s sister, Barbara, Carolyn Ahern and the lord and master of all things tickets, Jeremiah Maher.

I also got to see my nephew, Sean – Terry’s son – who I love, and who, likewise, had driven over to join us on Sunday.

I was even able to watch my Orange from a front row seat in historic Hinkle Fieldhouse (where they shot the championship game in the movie, Hoosiers), and watch them give it their all before finally succumbing to a clearly superior team.

Later, I also got to sit there and applaud for a bunch of boys who went so much farther than anyone – myself included – ever gave them a chance to go.

But the weekend was not really about basketball, or winning, or even S.U. It was about family. It was about me and Terry. Even though he and I talk on the phone weekly, the moment we first saw each other that Saturday, suddenly we were no longer seventy-year-old geezers complaining about our health or yet another day’s worth of mysterious aches and pains.

We were kids once more.

Once again, we were lying in our twin beds back in Syracuse with the lights out, stifling laughs and making fart noises deep into the night.

Once again, we were sitting across the kitchen table from one another talking trash, eating popsicles, and trying to beat one another’s brains out in All Star Baseball or Bas-ket.

And once again, we were two young, twenty-something bucks back the Office, the cozy, little neighborhood tavern where Terry worked before figuring out what he wanted to do with his life; him picking me up by my chest and measuring my height against that of one of his customers, a pretty and petite young thing whom he’d bet a round of drinks that she wasn’t any taller than his big brother.

The days between us, in other words, just seemed to melt away the longer we sat there in Indianapolis, laughing, reminiscing and talking about God knows what.

I don’t necessarily have a moral to this essay, except maybe this: live.

Live for today.  Live in the moment. And live as though tomorrow might not happen.  Because one of these days, it won’t.

One of these days will be the last day I ever spend time with my brother, Terry.  One of these S.U. games will be the final one I ever get to see.  And one bite of one of these juicy ribeyes will be the very last time a piece of steak ever crosses my lips.

Emily Dickinson once reminded us to “gather ye rosebuds.” Nike told us to “just do it.”  And I’m telling you (and, believe me, I know what I’m talking about here) “live.” Live – and love – like every day will be the last one that God grants you.

That’s what that special weekend reminded me, and did so in flesh-and-blood terms. And it’s what Bonnie Raitt’s lyrics say to me every time I hear them – these days there’s no sense wasting even a sliver of whatever time, whatever life, we have left.

Because take it from a guy whose middle name might as well be “Borrowed Time,” life – even with all its warts and tears – is not only a gift, it’s precious.   ###