If you followed high school sports in the mid-1950s, you may recall an outstanding South Portland High School athlete named Glenn Brown.

Glenn was my father’s kid brother, and he could play football and baseball with the best of them.

Our family was saddened Good Friday when we learned that Glenn had died early that morning.

With my uncle’s passing, an athletic era in our clan comes to an end.

Glenn was the first star in our family in the world of sports.

I have many fond memories of sleeping over at my Grandmother’s house in the Redbank district of South Portland and listening to Glenn’s tiny radio bringing us Red Sox and Celtics games.

Although Glenn was a few years older than I am, we were more like brothers than uncle and nephew.

I have a vivid memory of an interest that those same Red Sox showed in Glenn’s athletic prowess, following an open tryout in Portland one year. Problem was, Glenn chose marriage to his sweetheart Linda and the United States Army, which would lead to greater stability for his three future daughters than tramping around the minor league system with an eye on the parent club.

Yes, he was that good. In fact, one Sunday, Glenn and the brood made their way to Bangor to visit and stopped off at the old Dow Air Force Base softball complex on Hammond Street to see yours truly play.

We were a man short that day, and Glenn decided to come out of retirement and play first base for us. We found him a pair of spikes, and he toiled gleefully in the August sun. Glenn smacked out a couple of extra base hits and fielded his position like he’d been doing it all his life.

My favorite memory of my father and his two brothers centered around Thanksgiving. Back in the day, our family switched off each year from southern Maine to northern Maine to accommodate my father’s and my mother’s families.

What a time we had.

In the morning, the men hunted, then we sat down for the big feast. If venison was added to the menu, then the meal was considered a great success.

My father was never much of a hunter. His brothers always complained about the noise he made in the woods, and they would put him in one spot and demanded that he remain peacefully still while they stalked the ever-elusive white tail deer.

In better days, my Aunt Linda and my Uncle Glenn accompanied us to Fenway Park. How Glenn loved the Boston Red Sox. He understood the many nuances of a game that very nearly became his life’s work. We often attended Portland Sea Dogs games together, and we spent many hours on the telephone, discussing future prospects from the Sox Double A franchise.

Glenn became a great fan of all the teams I coached through the years. He got a particular charge out of being recognized for something I did on TV – he and I shared the family resemblance – and often kidded me about the number of people in his neck of the woods who called him and told him they had seen him during my interviews or TV broadcasts.

Rest in peace, Uncle Glenn. You were one of a kind and we all miss you dearly.