The Guy Who Taught Me to Fight (by Tony Barnette)

This here? This is Randy.

He’s my brother: a tall, skinny, goofy dude. He’s my blood brother. We played together as we grew up. He got me in and out of trouble as we navigated our teens.

I went to college to play ball. Randy went to culinary school to put his art into food.

As we chased down our own life paths, we rarely talked, but kept in touch. We didn’t know details of each others lives; hell, we hardly related to anything outside the fact we shared the same last name. But when things got hairiest in life, we knew where to turn. It was a bond that few, if any, understood. It’s confusing to our family to this day how Randy and I got along. We fought the same as any brothers do; I remember the first time I took a right hook, a real right hook, it was Randy’s. It left me on the ground bleeding. He taught me a lesson that day: if you’re gonna swing first, don’t miss.

I missed.

We would meet at his apartment time to time and put boxing gloves on, go out in the grass, and just fight. It was fun for us. If he were good at sports, he would’ve been the teammate you love to have and hate to play. Randy’s energy was something different. It makes me chuckle because we could never find the mute button for him. He was the first to jump off a roof, first to run into a terrible idea. Others may have been annoyed, but I loved it.

All the Barnettes I’ve ever known are gifted with that curse in some fashion. Our other brother—Cory—is a fire-fighting Marine. I find it hard to turn it off when I get going and sometimes my actions speak before I do. As I tried to “make it” as a ballplayer, I did my best to play the part and keep my head down.

Randy? Well, Randy didn’t. He charged right ahead and did and said the things he felt. I admire him for that.

That attitude has a way of being loved by some but also hated by others. He wasn’t a middle-of-the-road kinda guy.

“What’s the point here, Tony?” You may ask.

He was my brother. He’s gone now. A brain aneurism took his life on May 15th, 2011 while he played with his 3-year-old daughter in the back yard of our mother’s house. She thought Daddy was sleeping. My mom would return home to find Randy.

I don’t talk about Randy; maybe that’s why this seems so scattered. I’ve been to his grave once, and I doubt I’ll ever go again. I know where he is and I know what he believed. He’s in my mind and heart and that will never change. I see him in everything I do with my daughters. I see his daughter growing and living her life and it breaks my heart knowing he doesn’t get to hug and play with her the way I get to with mine. For this reason, I try not to miss chances to play with my daughters, even before a game or right at the end of games. They are first on my mind once that last out is recorded. Win or lose; doesn’t matter.

One of my favorite pictures is of Robby Chirinos and I, standing on the mound as the rain cascaded off my hat and his gear when I faced the Yanks in the pouring rain in Yankee Stadium in 2016. Y’all remember that game—we finished at 3 am. Prince Fielder’s and Adrian Beltre’s kids were the only ones left in the stands, having an awesome time.

As the game got delayed, I went inside. I started walking around the clubhouse looking for something to occupy the time of the delay. Something reminded me of Randy, I think it was just a giant Yankee symbol that shot Randy to the front of my thoughts. Randy’s favorite team was the Yankees. It got a bit emotional for me at that moment because I knew he dreamed of Yankee stadium. The Yankees were his mountaintop of sports teams, and here I was living it, knowing he’d never get to see it. So I kept walking until I could compose myself. I play today with him in my life.

My oldest brother went to war and came home, thankfully, because I’m not sure how I’d carry both their torches. I struggle to handle Randy’s. Ballplayers get asked a lot: “What is your motivation? What drives you?” We play for our teammates, to fight and work harder for the guys that are putting in the same effort for me. To provide for our families, to be the best, to win championships. To give the fans something to cheer for and enjoy. Baseball is a team game based off of individual performances. We’ve all seen the teams that win, the chemistry is thick, you can see it, you can taste it. I play for all of those things.

I also play for Randy.

Every one of us has a story on how we got to this place called the Major Leagues. And as life and baseball does, it constantly hurls heartache and loss at us. We’ve nearly all lost a loved one, so in that fact I’m no different then the next guy. That is life. We live, we die. Who knows what’s on the other side?

“In the face of such hopelessness as our eventual, unavoidable death there is little sense in not at least trying to accomplish all of your wildest dreams in life.” -Kevin Smith. We all have our beliefs; maybe we’ll share eternity, maybe we’re just a rock spinning and shooting through space. But we all have a story, and this story, although not the full story, is my story about the guy who taught me to fight: my Brother Randy.