boy inside the man
Memories of a fallen brother.
If you get to know me well enough, you know I have a soft spot in my heart for Canadian rockers. For Canada in general, actually, but to me there’s something truly genuine about the Canadian rock sound. They are the unsung heroes of the rock world. While the British and the Americans get all the glory, Canada’s rockers are the “everyman” artists—they seem to connect better with the people who watch them perform, making you feel like you could even be one of them. Well, not me. I don’t have any musical talent or singing ability. And while lack of singing ability never stopped Neil Young or Bob Dylan, it’s enough to keep me writing.
Tom Cochrane was one such rocker I came to know in 1981 with the release of Lunatic Fringe, a song by his band, Red Rider. But honestly, it’s his solo work I can’t get out of my head lately. Ever since I said a final goodbye to my brother, Tim.
I was fortunate to be able to say a few words at Tim’s memorial service. Rather than preparing a speech, I decided to just say whatever words my heart and mind could mash together at the time. Cochrane’s song, Boy Inside the Man popped into my head just as I began speaking, and it’s been playing inside me ever since.
So long so long, so long you been away
So long so long, so long you’re back again.
As a boy, Tim had the world at his fingertips. I especially remember those days in Lockport Little League. Tim and I alternated at shortstop and pitcher. When I was on the mound, I wished with every crack of the bat for a grounder to short. To say Tim was like a vacuum there doesn’t cut it—even the best vacuums leave some dirt behind, and I can’t remember a ball not ending up in Tim’s glove.
It was the same at home and in school. Tim had that twinkle in his eye, the charm that somehow managed to get him into and out of trouble, all at the same time. Socially, he was every bit the superstar—the consummate entertainer. He could sing. He could dance. And people truly loved to be around him. They loved watching him be that boy, even as that boy grew to be a man.
I lost track of the man for some time. To be honest, I’m not sure if I ever really knew Tim, the man, all that well. He moved away. Then I moved away. We started new chapters in our lives, and although we always had the bridge of our common past—our close alliance between us, an ocean of water passed under us over the years.
Several years ago, Tim showed up in Tennessee and we spent a couple hours together at my home. He had that same twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step. He found a calling with his outdoors column, traveling around the country, writing about the places and things he wanted people to experience. He had so much passion in his voice when he talked about it, and he was good at it. Very good.
He had also met a girl. I don’t remember her name now, but she obviously meant a lot to him. I could see it in his face. Hear it in his voice. She was moving to Tennessee and he thought he might be coming along. I couldn’t have been more proud that his life had come into focus. He knew what he wanted. He was happy. And he had plans.
Tim also wanted to kill the elephant in the room. He wanted to make sure I understood his feelings about the events following the death of his father, events that divided our family. As I listened, it became clear that what I was hearing wasn’t so much his side of the story, but more a wish that things could’ve been different, and a desire to move forward. To heal. I told him I felt there was so little done right back then—by everyone—it simply wasn’t worth replaying. Where I was concerned, there was nothing to repair. I held no bad feelings for him then, and with him standing in front of me, I had only hope for a better future. We were brothers before we were brothers, and we would remain that way no matter how much time passed between visits.
Before he left, he asked if we could stay in touch, and reconnect when he moved here. We exchanged phone numbers, embraced, and he was on his way, leaving me standing in the doorway and a pile of empty beer bottles on the kitchen table. Some things just don’t change.
I don’t know what happened to those plans, or to the girl. He may have moved here and then left again. Our lives got busy and we just let the water continue to flow. And then, a few short weeks ago, the water stopped. Returning to Lockport after so much time, to say a final goodbye, I’m reminded of a few more words from Cochrane’s song:
Hit hard by the light so bright it burned.
And all at once I knew she’d understand.
The boy inside the man.
The memories hit me hard. Harder with each old friend I met. Each neighbor who stopped to pay his or her respects. Each person who loved Tim for his light. For that boy inside the man.
I can honestly say that Tim has been on my mind every day since I got that Tuesday morning call—the one in which my mother told me he was gone. I’ve spent a lot of time, tears, and laughter quietly remembering the past, a past colored by time and age. Girls. Baseball games. Parties at the house. Girls. Football at the water tower. The occasional fight. Oh, and girls.
I wish I had known more of Tim, the man. I wish my children could’ve known the wonderful person inside their Uncle Tim. And yet I understand that Jake and Emily can still know him, through me. I’m a better person for having known Tim, for all he taught me even when we were just young boys.
Like Tim or anyone else looking back, there are things I wish I had done differently. Things I wish he had done differently. But I believe you are shaped by all your experiences. I am thankful for the opportunity to make mistakes, and to learn from them. So as I say goodbye to my brother, to that boy inside the man, I recall a few words from another Tom Cochrane song:
Have no regrets
Might have seen better times
But maybe we ain’t been there yet
Remember the good times and least you forget
Have no regrets.
Cheers!
