As bad as things were at school and on the baseball team,

things got even worse when my brother came home from

college on spring break. It was his first year at college, and

in a way, I kind of missed him. However, things were a lot

different now that we were older, and when he got back

on spring break, boy, were things different. Somebody

said my brother had become a hippie or something, but

all I knew was that when he got home, he did nothing

but argue with my parents. Just about every single night

for the entire week, my brother would start arguing with

my parents about something. First, it was his hair. I

didn’t think he’d had it cut since he went away. I thought

it looked really neat, but my mother was pretty darn

pissed off.

“When are you going to cut your hair?” she’d ask.

158 | That Mr. Tambourine Man Fellow

“When hell freezes over,” he’d reply.

Then she’d say something real dumb, like “You’re not

going to church with your hair like that.”

Then my brother would say something like “Good. I

didn’t plan on going to church anyway.” Of course, that

would get my mother even madder and more upset.

Then my brother would start playing his rock albums

on the living room stereo. He’d play some Beatles albums,

and he had an album by some guys called Cream—my

mother couldn’t stand it. My brother would play the

song “Sunshine of Your Love” over and over again, and

it would drive my mother nuts. Usually, the only kinds

of records that ever got played on our stereo were things

like Tony Bennett and Perry Como. I guessed the Cream

album was pretty much of a shock to my mother and

our stereo. I felt a little sorry for my mother because my

brother didn’t seem to care much about what she said. My

brother never used to be like that. As a matter of fact, my

brother always was kind of a model student, a model son,

and even a model brother. Well, he sure wasn’t much of a

model anything anymore.

The album my parents really couldn’t stand was by a

guy my parents said couldn’t sing a lick. The guy’s name

was Bob Dylan, and the album was a bunch of his greatest

hits. I didn’t know what was so great about them since

the only one I’d ever heard of was a song called “Blowin’

in the Wind,” and Peter, Paul, and Mary sure sang it a

lot better than he did. My father once had to order my

brother to take that album off the stereo. “Get that off

right now!” he said. I hardly ever saw my father get that

mad. I hadn’t heard him raise his voice like that since

we were real little squirts. I didn’t think the album was

good either, and the guy did have a weird voice, but there

was one song about a Mr. Tambourine Man guy that I

thought was sort of neat. I listened to the song a few times

when nobody was around. I liked it. I kind of wished I

knew somebody like that Mr. Tambourine Man fellow.

The worst arguments of all were about the stupid war

in Vietnam.

“We’d better get out of there,” my brother’d say. “That

idiot President Johnson doesn’t know what the hell he’s

doing.”

“Well, we have to fight the Communists some place,”

my father’d say. “If we don’t stop ’em there, the next

thing you know, they’ll be attacking Pearl Harbor like

the Japs did.”

“Aw, come off it,” my brother’d say. “Who are you

afraid of? They’re just fighting about their own country.

It’s a civil war.”

“But if our president says we have to fight to defend

these people, then we should fight.”

“The president is a fool,” my brother would say,

and then my father would get really mad. “The whole

government is corrupt. They’ve been lying about the war

all along. They just want to kill off all us kids. That’s why

they’re sending all the kids over there.”

“And what would you do if they drafted you?” my

father asked one day.

“I’d go to Canada,” my brother said.

“You’d betray your country? You’d be a traitor?”

160 | That Mr. Tambourine Man Fellow

“The country is wrong. The war is immoral.”

By that time, my father would just kind of shake his

head. Then he’d start rubbing his forehead the way he

usually did when he got upset. My father probably rubbed

his forehead more times during that one week than he

ever had in all his prior days.

One day they talked about a war protest demonstration

my brother had gone to. “Yeah, I cut classes to go,” my

brother said.

“We’re paying our hard-earned money to send you to

college, and you spend your time cutting classes to protest

our government,” my father said, rubbing his forehead.

“The government is corrupt. They are hiding the

truth,” my brother said. “All they care about is making

money.”

It was bad. I started to feel bad for my father. My

brother was criticizing everything he believed in. I sat

at the table and listened, but I didn’t know what to say.

I always wanted to defend my brother, but I sure didn’t

want to go hurting my father’s feelings any more than

my brother was already doing. I really didn’t know who

was right, but I could sure as heck see that neither one

wanted to give in.

Things were just bad all over.

My brother said he was working on a presidential

campaign for a guy named Eugene McCarthy. He was

an old guy with white hair who told jokes and stuff.

My brother said Eugene McCarthy had made President

Johnson drop out of the race. I told my brother I’d seen

 old LBJ on TV the night he said he was not going to

seek a second term as president, but he didn’t say it was

because of Eugene McCarthy. The president looked real

tired that night, and I kind of felt sorry for him. What

with everybody yelling at him and criticizing him and all

the protests and stuff, I could see why he wouldn’t want

to be president again. He said he wanted to devote the

rest of his term to getting peace in Vietnam. He didn’t

mention ole Eugene McCarthy. I asked my brother if

Eugene McCarthy was the one who’d gotten everybody

in trouble for being Communists back in the 1950s and

if he was the one who’d gotten Richard Nixon his start.

“What are you—a dummy or something?” my brother

said. “It was Joseph McCarthy who did all the witchhunting

for Communists. What are they teaching you in

school anyway? And old crazy Joe McCarthy got Bobby

Kennedy his start, not Nixon.”

I didn’t say anything, but that surprised me and made

me feel pretty darn lousy. I knew that Joe McCarthy

was a totally despicable guy from learning about him in

history class, but I sure hadn’t known Bobby Kennedy

was involved with him. I was really pissed off by what

my brother had said, and I wanted to defend ole Bobby.

“Well, if I could vote, I’d be voting for Bobby

Kennedy,” I said, and I meant it.

“Bobby Kennedy? Ha!” my brother said, and my

blood started to boil. “Why did he wait so long to decide

to run? So he could let McCarthy take all the chances and

knock LBJ out of the picture? Yeah, I used to like Bobby

Kennedy but not anymore.”

162 | That Mr. Tambourine Man Fellow

My blood slowly stopped boiling, but I was real hurt,

and I felt lousy. I felt kind of the way my father did when

he got into arguments with my brother. My brother just

seemed to know everything. I really couldn’t argue with

him because he seemed to have all the facts, so what

the heck could I say? But I still liked Bobby Kennedy,

and nothing my brother could say would change that. I

remembered how Bobby had talked to a crowd of angry

people the night the Doc was shot and had tried to calm

everybody. He’d tried to tell black people that white people

were just as upset when Dr. King was killed. Bobby tried

to smooth out the racial tensions. The other night, I’d seen

him giving a speech, and he told some jokes too. They

were a lot funnier than Eugene McCarthy’s jokes, which

nobody could understand anyway. I knew Jonathan liked

Bobby too because he said black folks could always trust

a Kennedy. I didn’t say any of that to my brother.

Then my brother said, “Yeah, too bad Bobby isn’t like

his brother Jack. Jack was a good guy. We lost a lot when

Jack was killed. Too bad Bobby can’t be like his older

brother.”

That got me super pissed off, and I stomped out of

the room. I thought, Older brothers just stick together. I

decided right then that I was for Bobby all the way, no

matter what anybody said.

My brother was leaving on Sunday afternoon, and I

was still hoping maybe we could have some kind of a good

time together, so on Friday night, I asked him if he’d like

to go over to the stadium to see the Yanks. 

“The Yanks, huh?” my brother said. “They gonna be

any good this year? Or are they gonna stink up the league

like last year?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” I said. “They’re gonna be good this

year.” Of course, I wasn’t sure about that. I could see that

we were headed for another argument.

“So who’s gonna be good this year?” my brother asked.

“Ah, well, they say Pepitone’s gonna have his best year

ever.”

“Pepitone?” My brother was not impressed. “He’s a

bum. Always was and always will be.”

“Well, they’ve got Horace Clarke. He had a good year

last year.”

“Horace Clarke?” My brother started laughing.

Then he shook his head in disgust and quietly said,

“Horace Clarke.” Then he spoke up a little louder, almost

pleading. “It’s never gonna be the same without Kubek

and Richardson, Ellie and Yogi, Roger and the Moose.

All the great guys are gone.”

I perked up and said, “Well, they’ve still got the Mick.”

“The Mick,” my brother said quietly, almost somberly.

“Yeah. The Mick.” My brother shook his head and rubbed

his chin. “The greatest player I ever saw, but what did he

hit last year? Two forty-five?”

“Yeah. Well, he’ll come back,” I said. “His legs get lots

of rest playing first base.” I was pretty optimistic.

“Yeah, well, let me tell you something, T. J.” My

brother seemed sad and serious. “The Mick is washed.”

“What?” I said. Of all the things my brother had

said while home, including all the arguments with our

164 | That Mr. Tambourine Man Fellow

parents and the stuff about Bobby Kennedy, nothing had

made me feel worse than when he said those four words.

I couldn’t believe my brother could even think such a

thing. Maybe our country was corrupt and all that, and

maybe we should protest, grow our hair long, yell at our

parents, listen to crazy music, and criticize people like

Bobby Kennedy, but to say that the Mick was washed up

was more than I could take. I was devastated.

“What are you—crazy?” I screamed. “He’s got plenty

of years ahead of him. He’s still in great shape!”

“Hey, look, T. J., don’t get all bent out of shape about

your hero. Heck, he was my hero too. I loved the guy. But

I’m just trying to tell you the truth. He’s washed. It’s over.

He’ll be lucky if he lasts the whole year before he retires.

The guy was the greatest, but his legs are shot.”

I became enraged. I wanted to belt my brother one.

I knew I couldn’t argue this one. All I could do was

start cursing and screaming at him. I kicked over some

furniture in our room and threw stuff. I did stuff I hadn’t

even done when I was a bratty little squirt.

I screamed, “You’re wrong! What do you know? You

creep!” Then I slammed the door, tore down the stairs,

and ran outside. I got on my bike and just started riding.

I rode and rode. I didn’t get home until after dark. I didn’t

care when my parents said they’d been worried sick. I

didn’t talk to them, and I didn’t talk to my brother. I

didn’t talk to my brother on Saturday, and I made sure I

wasn’t around when he left for college on Sunday.