When you grow up 16 months younger than your brother, competition and emulation naturally ensue from an early age. When he learns to eschew the diaper for the toilet, you, within weeks, do too, age difference be damned. You argue heatedly over the important stuff, like who knows more baseball trivia, and those verbal spats not so infrequently lead to physical ones. You continue to shove each other in pursuit of that elusive front seat for the four-minute drive around the corner well into the time you’re both legal adults. Video game losses are due to technological malfunctions, board game defeats because it’s a stupid game, and he knows he just got lucky. And, maybe, a golf club gets broken over your leg from time to time.
That’s not to say that we didn’t get along. We did, much of the time, and we rooted for each other. Oh, and it goes without saying that we’re the only ones allowed to lay a finger on one another or give the other shit. But growing up, the competition is certainly still there, even when you’re on the same team or same newspaper.
***
When I chose to go to the same college as my brother Ben, I imagined there would be some of the same, and to a certain extent, there was. Even the competition—my older brother was already an active member of The Crimson and didn’t exactly encourage me to join, though that advice obviously went unheeded. Later, when it looked like only one spot remained on the football beat for my sophomore year, it was he and I who duked it out (though, ultimately, more spots existed than we realized).
When you go to school with your brother, you’re asked, quite naturally, “How often do you see each other?” And slowly, that answer began to change. Driving up and down the highlights of the East Coast together, from Worcester, Mass. to Easton, Penn., covering Harvard football will do that to you. What was once one to two times a week my freshman year easily doubled in that first half of my sophomore year.
And then, as we both moved up the ranks in 2012—he to President of The Crimson, me to Sports Chair—we found ourselves together every day.
But this time, the heated arguments had abated, the punches were left unthrown and the golf clubs unsmashed. Maybe it was the drives to the Eastons of the world that did it. Or the fact that we now had the opportunity to work together and, though we may’ve disagreed at times, in the grand scheme of things, we realized we saw eye to eye more with each other than with almost anyone else, as siblings often do.
And that, mixed with a jolt of brotherly pride, made seeing him every day in the president’s office running the ship, working with him for a year, one of the highlights and most gratifying parts of my four years at Harvard.
***
About a year later, I was running to become the next President, following in his footsteps. The Friday morning before Thanksgiving, at around 4:45 a.m., I got a late-night phone call from my brother to deliver the results, good or bad. He had, of course, recused himself from any sort of voting or taking part in the selection process of his successor, though it was agreed he’d be the one making the phone call.
When I saw that he was calling, I picked up and could quickly hear that he was talking through a smirk. We exchanged the usual 5 a.m. pleasantries, and then he asked me: “You ready to make your mother very happy?”
The next few weeks were chaotic, as I tried to cram knowledge in about all facets of the organization. But perhaps the most meaningful part of it all was one of the final things my brother passed along. Recalling that night, he told me, “I was happier when you won than when I did.”
***
As my three-and-a-half years on The Crimson wind down, a bit (or a lot) of nostalgia kicks in. It’s been roughly a year since that 5 a.m. phone call, and a crazy year it’s been.
The job of Crimson President is shockingly all-consuming. Nothing I’ve ever done (or, from what I’ve heard from predecessors, will likely do again) requires such total devotion and energy, merging the time commitment of an investment banker with the lifestyle of a monk. It’s something you don’t really realize when you take the role, that things like classes—or, the ones you go to—become 53-minute distractions from the only thing you actually want to do.
But it makes the ride a helluva lot easier when you have someone there who’s been through it before, who you trust and respect immensely, and who you can lean on for advice.
The fact that it’s been a year since I became President also indicates, though, that I have fleeting few days (as of press time, 26 of 1124 total) left in an organization that I’ve come to love and has done a tremendous amount for me. But nothing more so than the remarkable (and perhaps once-in-a-lifetime) pleasure of getting to work so closely with my brother, of sharing this experience with him, and the relationship that’s helped to forge and solidify. That growth—more than the articles written, the supplements produced, the products launched, the list goes on—will stick with me, long after my share of this funny slice of history at 14 Plympton Street has wound to a close.
Robert S. Samuels ’14 is an Economics concentrator in Leverett House. Master has given him a sock!
