Pilgrims and Witches and Peaches and Me

I know this is hard for you to imagine. Today I'm the very model of a modern mild-mannered man. But there was a time in my life when I was an angry young scrapper, full of piss and vinegar and a hair-trigger temper. I broke more than one tennis racket in a fit of pique, multiple golf clubs, too. Wasn't much of a fighter, but I finished what I started (when I was solo, anyway - when around my much larger friends I ran my mouth and they got my back) - my lifetime record in fistfights is 3-0, with all three opponents retiring with blood gushing from their noses. I'm not proud*.

* I kinda am. All three dudes were bigger than me and I dotted their eyes quickly, lest we get into a grapple and I get my puny ass kicked. My Dad saw one of them happen, as it took place in the midst of an indoor lacrosse game he attended to watch his kid play. As the other kid walked out of the building with a towel and ice on his beak, Dad whispered, "nice shot" to me. That's one of my favorite memories.

Dad had a temper of his own, but it never seemed as irrational as mine could be when I was young. And Mom was New England stoic to a fault. Neither was as rabidly competitive as my younger self, either. I never really understood where that came from. But this week gave me a clue.

My mother is a serious student of our family's history. She spends a lot of time researching our genealogy, tracing both sides of the family back to the early 17th century. (Mayflower, y'all - when I asked Mom about our history, she replied via text, "Pilgrims and Witches. LOL". That's the name of my next album.) Earlier this week, she posted a link to a brief biography of a woman named Mary Towne Estey.

Mary Towne Estey had a son named Isaac who had a son named Richard who had a son named Zebulon who had a son named Samuel who had a son named LeBaron who had a daughter named Eva who had a son named Theodore who had a daughter named Nancy who had me. Mrs. Estey is my seventh great-grandmother. (She was also hanged as a witch in Salem, as it turns out. Glad she had Isaac first.)

Mrs. Estey's sixth great-grandson via a different route was none other than Ty Cobb, the Georgia Peach. Notorious for his irascibility, competitive ferocity, and temper. 

When I learned of this familial bond this week, a lot of pieces snapped into place. Me and Ty. Ty and Me. Peas in a pod. Not much of a physical resemblance, but mentally? Hoo boy. A lot of stuff is starting to make sense.

I'll need a few more weeks to process the additional familial connections with Mitt Romney and Amy Grant that flow from Good Witch Mary. Genealogy is cool. As is my new Mitchell and Ness 1912 Tigers jersey.