He Lived a Tough Story — And Wrote a Better One for Us All.
December 17, 1954 - August 25, 2025
The Father
He didn’t always say the words, but you felt them—in the way he provided, in the way he protected, and in the way he showed up when it mattered. He didn’t try to be perfect. He tried to be present. He made sacrifices we didn’t always see at the time. He didn’t expect applause. He just did what needed to be done. GID—Get It Done—he would say. He even had those three letters carved into a wooden paper holder that sat on his desk, something we all grew up seeing. Being a father isn’t about big moments—it’s about consistency. About choosing your family again and again—even when it’s hard, and when many men have walked away. That’s what he did. He gave us more than his time. He gave us an example that proved itself. His quiet effort made us strong. And now we carry that forward—in the way we show up for our own.
The Brother
He was more than a brother. He was a lifeline. At just 11 years old, with his father deployed in Korea and his mother gone, he stepped into a role no child should have to fill. In the streets of Providence, he shined shoes to earn what little money he could, and with that money, he didn’t take care of himself—he took care of his sisters. He bought food. He brought it home (wherever home was). He made sure Karen and Dianne were fed, safe, and never alone.
That was the beginning. But it was never just about childhood. He kept that same energy for the rest of his life. As his sisters grew up, he kept looking out. He kept boys in the neighborhood at a distance. If someone stepped out of line, they heard from him—plain and simple. And it wasn’t just talk. He wasn’t afraid to step in, physically or otherwise, to make sure his sisters were loved and protected. He took that role seriously, and everyone around them knew it.
He didn’t get soft with time—he got steadier. He stayed close, he stayed involved, and he stayed honest. He never gave fake comfort. He gave strength. He gave truth. And that’s what Karen and Diane leaned on. He didn’t just show up for the celebrations. He was there for the messy middle. For the family tensions. For the real life moments where people needed someone solid to lean on. He carried that weight for them—not because he had to, but because that’s who he was.
Karen and Diane didn’t just grow up with a brother. They grew up with a shield. Someone who stood in front when things got rough. Someone who knew what they’d been through—because he’d lived it too. That kind of love doesn’t end when a life does. It stays. It grows. It ages with the gray hairs and the losses. It shows up in the quiet moments, the old stories, the way Diane still carries him—and Karen did, too, before she passed.
Now it lives on in Diane. In the years they survived because they had each other. In the strength they passed on to their own children (Kiesha, Tara, Chema and Salewa). In the bond they never had to explain—because it was built from survival, not just sentiment.
The Friend
He wasn’t just a friend. He was the kind of man you’d want in your corner when life got hard. He wanted the best for the people he loved. He was loyal. He was kind. He was smart with advice—sometimes stubborn, always real. He didn’t give surface-level friendship. He gave the kind that held people up. The kind that stayed through mistakes, through change, through seasons of struggle. We’ve heard the stories—stories of him standing up for his friends when it mattered most. Fighting when they couldn’t fight for themselves. Supporting them emotionally when they were broken. Defending them physically when their lives were at risk. He earned their trust because he gave his first. He earned their love because he never held his back.
His friends became family. Uncle Dino. Uncle Bill. Uncle Mitch. Not by blood, but by brotherhood—forged through years of showing up, again and again. He mentored hundreds. Through their addiction. Through their marriage. Through their fatherhood. Through life. He never claimed to have all the answers. In fact, he’d say—half serious, half calling your bluff—“Everyone has all the answers,” because that’s how people act, right? Like they’ve figured it all out. And when we’d get into debates, he’d always remind me, “Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, Antonio… but not their own facts.”
He didn’t just talk. He listened. He challenged you to think. He told the truth even when it was hard to hear. If you were his friend, you didn’t have to question it. You felt it—in the way he showed up, in the way he believed in you, in the way he never stopped fighting for the people he cared about. That kind of friendship doesn’t fade. That kind of friend doesn’t leave quietly. It stays etched into your mind, your heart, and the parts of you that were better because of him. He stays with you—in your story, in your strength, in your second chances. Because that’s who Mr. B was. Not just a friend. A brother. A protector. A guide. And the kind of man you don’t forget.
