In My Write Mind

They reminded me of one another. Of course they would. They were brothers — always embroiled in some form of debate, disagreement, dissing and donnybrook.

It’s what they did, my dad and my uncle. It’s what I saw. What made me know what it meant … what it took … to be like them.

To be a man.

That’s what I’ll always be thankful for when I think of my uncle, who succumbed to pancreatic cancer last week after months of battling and surviving. He leaves behind seven sons and daughters, a wonderful wife and scores and scores of family and friends, along with a solid reputation and a warm spirit.

That’s what I’ll take with me this weekend as my family goes to bury my dad’s brother, the last of the straight talkers (no chaser), one who would give you the shirt off of his back (and then maybe some skin for good measure), a man who was a perfect combination of strength, power and wisdom.

He was there for us when my dad passed away, reminding us that the grief was only temporary — even as he himself grieved. Probably took it harder than any of us. Still, he reiterated that the life my dad lived, the lives he touched, were worth more than mere tears. It was something for us to be proud of, for us to remember and urged us to keep pieces of him with us at all times as he rested in peace.

I do that. Always.

I also have similar memories of my uncle and the times I spent during the summers of my childhood in that Brooklyn brownstone over on Prospect Place, right on the cusp of Bed Stuy and Crown Heights. It was there, during their annual block party, that I first got hipped to “Eric B. for President” and learned the wop. It was there, as a kid, that I got a whupping from my dad for running in their driveway, falling and putting a hole in my dress pants.

It’s there that I watched the Mets during their championship run in ‘86, with my uncle strategizing and calling plays as if he were in the dugout right alongside Davey Johnson. It was there where we got our hearts broken — not unlike every spring with that team — as we watched Game Seven of the 1994 finals, Knicks Vs. Rockets.

I’ll always have the memories of the Knicks games we actually attended, especially during the 1992 playoffs, the game in the middle of the series where Michael Jordan went up for a breakaway dunk, the Garden gasped as he let it go, and never sounded so loud when he missed.

There we were, my uncle, my cousin and me … in the middle of it all, high-fiving, taking it all in, drowning in the excitement. More pieces.

It’s moments like that — of which there were many, many more — that undoubtedly will come to mind on Saturday as they talk about the kind of man he was.

They’ll talk about how hard he worked, how much impact he had on the people around him, how he would pull no punches, embarrass you if it was needed, and nuture you when he was done. He did whatever it took for his family to survive, to thrive. You learn to do that when you have six children at home that were born close together.

They’ll talk about how much he loved to fish, how many Saturdays he and my dad got swept away by the waves as much as the conversation. How a case of beers, some cheese and pepper sandwiches and Yoo-Hoo was their version of power food, helped them fight with the porgies and the bass.

A lot of pieces to carry with me … as he rests in peace.

I’ll take those pieces straight into Brooklyn with me tomorrow, and all the way back to Harlem and then on through life. Those memories will be worn as a badge of honor … right on my heart, with a sense of pride.

I miss the both of them. Two men who taught me what I needed in order to be one myself. With the two of them gone, it may seem like I’m here by myself. But I’m not.

I have the memories, enough to carry me through my lifetime … and then some.

I’ll be just fine.

Rest in peace, James Sutton. I got your pieces right here.