24 PUNCHMAGAZINE.COM {sloane citron} to read the newspaper’s box scores. Reading of Mantle and Maris and Koufax took me back to that time as children together in our shared room on Hayden Street, as though no time had passed at all. How comforting it all felt. We decide to play golf, despite Dan—once a youth star— not having played a round in almost 10 years. Playing a scramble format, we work as a team to beat the course, and sometimes we do, shooting a respectable 78 with borrowed clubs and an unfamiliar layout. That game, like pretty much everything else, I learned from my brother, my hero. Our last night is bittersweet, the magic of the trip still in the air, but fleeting. In my room, my thoughts run deep—sharing this time with Dan and feeling the pull of our youth—and I lie in my bed staring at nothing in particular, my mind unfolding our lives together, emotions moving through me. In the morning, we load the car and head back the way we came. A soothing rain keeps pace with us as though following us home. On the drive, we continue to chase down memories and thoughts that had not yet appeared. Close to the airport for my drop-off, Dan asks, partly in jest, “Is there anything we haven’t discussed?” A road trip reminds you how rare it is to simply be with someone you love, uninterrupted, with nowhere else to be. And somewhere between departure and destination, you realize the journey isn’t just across distance—it’s into each other, with a glimpse deep inside yourself and your fellow traveler. And if you’re lucky enough, you get to share it with your treasured brother. “I need a break,” I tell my big brother, Dan, a doctor living in Denver. “Well,” he says, “so do I. Since we both are having big birthdays, let’s celebrate with a road trip.” I smile. Dan (five years my senior) and I have taken many road trips together over the years, and each has provided a special memory. We’re not just traveling to a place on an airplane, we’re on a journey. The hours together give us the ability to discuss our lives with no time limits or interruptions and allow us to search deep within ourselves for the fragments of memory that have shaped our time together. We needed a destination— almost an afterthought really, since it was companionship and brotherly love we were after, not tourist attractions or other people. “How about Santa Fe,” I suggest. While we had gone many times, both of us enjoy it there. We grew up in Amarillo, and the small New Mexican arts town is a quick trip for us and a common vacation spot. The Southwest was our roots and everything from the terrain to the weather to the people felt familiar and comforting. So I fly to Denver where, the evening before we start our journey, we have dinner with our cousin, Peter Vardon, and his family. The next morning, we load the car, excited to get going. The day is young, the sun bright, and we have a full tank of gas, some snacks and plenty of tunes—the perfect way to start the trip. We hit the road heading south and fly through the miles, but inside our car, time feels suspended. There’s no rush, no agenda beyond the road ahead, and that makes room for plenty of conversation. We start off talking about the journey, but soon drift into memories, old stories, things half-forgotten. We discuss our issues (mine, really) and go deep into the memories of our childhood in Amarillo, where we shared a room, our beds two feet apart. Sometimes we laugh and sometimes we drift into the seriousness of life—lost dreams, old girlfriends, those that have passed and those we remember. The road, trust and a lifetime spent together invites honesty. That day alone would have been enough. But we arrive with three more days ahead. Our hotel, near the famous Santa Fe plaza, is fine, not too fancy but clean and comfortable. That night, we exchange gifts, and Dan gives me a firstedition copy of October 64 by David Halberstam, a beautifully written story of the baseball of our youth—Mantle, Maris, Koufax and more. It turns out to be a propitious gift. We spend our days wandering the streets, enjoying good food and visiting museums—the New Mexico History Museum, the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and the Wheelwright Museum where the main attraction is the compelling work of Emmi Whitehorse. Surprisingly, the free, close-quartered “Oldest House in Santa Fe” is especially interesting. I’m constantly on the lookout for the nine gifts I need for my grandkids. At night, tired from miles of walking and hours of conversation, I read the baseball book Dan gave me. It was my brother who taught me the game, playing endless catch in our front yard, the Amarillo light shining down on us with the cicadas droning their song. And it was he who shared his baseball card collection with me as we studied the stats of our favorites, and who showed me how driving with dan
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