MARK GRISHAM

"I have been asked hundreds of times what it was like growing up with a big brother like John Grisham. Honestly, we had no clue that he was destined to become one of the few best-selling authors of all times. We grew up in a modest working class suburb of Memphis, Tennessee. My two older brothers, John and Ken, were six and five years older than me, so I naturally looked up to them in many ways. John was not a brilliant student, as most people assume he was. He was a decent athlete and was disciplined enough to learn how to study. He never showed any inclination towards being adept at writing stories. Ken was usually focused on the girls and having a good time, while John was a little more reserved. Our dear mother taught us to find humor in all things that happened; sometimes we took that a little too far. Our sense of humor at times probably seemed a little warped to strangers, but it was all in good fun. Life was good growing up on Staunton Drive in Southaven. The street and surrounding neighborhood was crammed full with kids of all ages. It was never hard to find a ballgame of some sort going on, usually in our yard or driveway. When my dear sweet older brothers were bored, they often found someone (usually bigger) for me to have a good and nasty fight with. My sole purpose as a boy was to grow up and be bigger than the both of them, so I could kick their butts. I was determined to make them pay for what they had done to me. Funny though, when I outgrew them both, they insisted that I should be grateful to them for making me tough. That, because of them I was a better football player. I should have realized then, that John was destined to be a lawyer. He was quick witted and hard to out argue. When he was wrong, he would just knock the heck out of me. They were supportive in their own ways though. When our dentist convinced my mother that I needed braces, John helped me convince our dad that I could not play football with braces on my teeth. That I could not wear a mouthpiece with braces on. Having never used a mouthpiece, my dad was easily swayed, again by a future lawyer. On the other hand, there was the time John held me down and taped my entire head with masking tape, just for fun. Or the time they crammed me into a wooden crate and shoved me under a crane in my dad’s business, just for fun. Or the time I was holding a ladder for John, while he was spray painting a crane with oil based metallic paint, bright orange at that. Lost in my thoughts, I suddenly realized that he was spray painting my head, bright orange. I spent hours pouring paint thinner into my hair to get the orange out.  I could go on and on and on. In their defense, I probably did deserve a lot of what I got. I guess growing up with a brother like John might not have been what one might suspect, or maybe it was."