I got a call from my brothers Steve and Pete Tuesday afternoon. They were in line waiting for the Springsteen show in Tampa, his first since Danny died last week. "We're numbers 605 and 606. Guess which number was picked?" "Um, 500?" "602! 602! 602!"
Yeah, my brothers made it into the pit, front row and center(ish) for the concert. They were calling to tell me the great news.
A decade ago, I'd have thought they were calling to make me supremely jealous because, you know, we weren't fans of each other. [That is putting it too mildly for words.] Two decades ago, they wouldn't have called, but they'd have probably let others know about it so I would find out and burn, burn, burn.
Tuesday night, though, they called because they were so happy and they knew I'd be happy for them. And excited. And beg them to channel me. And spend the rest of the evening imagining being there, hoping the similar DNA present in Florida would set my own DNA a'tingle here in California.
I had a great Tuesday night, knowing my brothers were having a hell of a time. When they called back after the show -- having played Bruce's guitar during Born to Run -- I was really happy for them. I did chide them, however, for still being able to talk. In their defense, they were near deaf, so I guess they had a good time. And I couldn't be happier for them.