July 24, 2026 – West Bend, Wi – I was the youngest of three brothers. My middle brother was Mark, and my oldest brother was Mike. We grew up in a good home with great parents. Life was simple back then, and we enjoyed all the things kids were supposed to enjoy—fishing, camping, hunting, and spending time up north. Looking back, those were good days.
The thing was, just like Dad, Mike never came down on us unless we truly had it coming. Because of that, I’ve never held anything against either of them. If you deserved it, you got it. That was just the way things worked.
Mike was a good brother in every sense of the word. He always had your back. Even though he had his own adventures and mischief, like any sixteen- or eighteen-year-old kid, he never dragged us into things we weren’t ready for. Whatever trouble he got into stayed at the door. He always looked out for our best interests.
Some of my favorite memories with Mike were fishing.
One day up north, Mike hooked into a giant northern pike. I mean, this fish was a monster. My job was to land it with the net. Unfortunately, the fish turned out to be smarter than I was. The Daredevil lure became tangled in the net I was holding, and before I could do anything, that huge northern twisted free and was gone.
To this day, I think you can still hear Mike’s bellow echoing through those northern woods. He was not happy. That fish was the biggest one we’d ever seen, and it got away. Looking back now, it’s one of those stories that makes me smile.
Another fishing trip stands out even more.
We were on Big Twin Lake up north when a storm rolled in. It came up so fast that we barely had time to react. Mike and I were alone in a small fishing boat with an outboard motor. I was only about nine years old, and I was scared. Mike was around 15.
The waves were huge, and the wind was howling. We were a long way from shore. But Mike knew exactly what to do. He kept the boat at the right angle to the waves so we wouldn’t get swamped or capsized. Had we turned the wrong way, the lake could have rolled us over in an instant.
I remember sitting there, frightened and soaked, watching my big brother handle the situation. Even at that age, I remember thinking, What a guy. He took charge and got us safely back to shore.
That’s who Mike was.
In many ways, he reminded me of Wally Cleaver from Leave It to Beaver. He was laid back, easygoing, and not easily rattled. There was such a genuinely nice streak running through him that whenever he got angry and tried to put somebody in their place, it was almost funny. He was simply too nice to pull it off convincingly.
But beneath that easy smile was someone dependable, someone who protected his family, someone who could take charge when it mattered most.
The title of this story comes from a question I heard over and over again while growing up.
I went to the same schools in West Bend that Mike had attended, and it seemed like everywhere I went, somebody would ask me, “Are you Mike Fechter’s brother?”
Most of the time, it was because of something good.
Mike had a great reputation. He was a good-looking guy, popular with the girls, and respected by the teachers. He was polite, respectful, and never caused trouble. He wasn’t flashy or loud. He was just naturally cool. The kind of person people liked being around. Years after he had graduated, people still remembered him.
As his little brother, I spent a lot of time being known as “Mike Fechter’s brother.”
Two particular experiences stand out.
The first involved the great and lovable Coach Bob Buell. Anyone who went to school in West Bend during those years knows exactly who I’m talking about. Bob was one of those larger-than-life figures who left an impression on everyone he met.
I worked alongside Coach Buell during Germanfest in West Bend, and whenever we talked, the conversation eventually found its way to Mike. Bob had coached him in football and always spoke fondly of him. He knew Mike had talent, especially as a defensive player. Coming from Bob Buell, that meant something. After all, Bob had played for the Chicago Bears. He knew football, and he knew people.
What I remember most, though, wasn’t what he said about Mike’s ability. It was the respect and affection in his voice whenever he talked about him. Bob was a wonderful man, and it always made me proud to hear him speak so highly of my brother.
The second story is one I’ll never forget.
When I was playing basketball, I attended a summer basketball camp in Eau Claire. For a kid from West Bend, it felt like I was a world away from home. Surely nobody up there would know who Mike Fechter was.
The campers were divided into small groups, with one coach assigned to every five players. We were sitting in a circle introducing ourselves when it came my turn.
“My name is Larry Fechter,” I said.
The coach looked at me for a second and then asked, “Are you Mike’s brother?”
I couldn’t believe it.
Here I was all the way up in Eau Claire, and I still couldn’t escape being Mike Fechter’s little brother.
“Yeah,” I said. “I am. How do you know Mike?”
The coach smiled and said, “I’m Dick Bennett.”
Of course, everyone knew who Dick Bennett was. He would go on to become a basketball legend, but years earlier he had spent a short time coaching in West Bend. During that time, he had coached Mike.
What amazed me wasn’t just that he remembered Mike. It was that he remembered him years later and recognized the last name immediately.
Once again, it wasn’t because Mike had done something wrong. Quite the opposite. He stood out because he was a good guy. He worked hard, treated people well, and earned their respect.
As I sat there in that gym in Eau Claire, I remember thinking that no matter how far I traveled, somebody was always going to know Mike Fechter.
And truthfully, I didn’t mind.
Because every time someone asked, “Are you Mike Fechter’s brother?” it was followed by a story, a smile, or a compliment. It reminded me that my big brother had left a positive mark on the people he met.
Not everyone can say that.
Mike could.
During my years at West Bend West, Mike returned the favor and came to watch me play basketball. Just as I had admired and respected him as an athlete, I believe he respected my efforts as well. We shared a mutual appreciation for each other’s accomplishments, even if neither of us spent much time talking about it.
Then there were the cars.
It was 1970, the golden age of American muscle cars. Today, those cars sell for outrageous amounts of money, but back then they were simply what every young guy dreamed about owning. Mike worked at the Gehl Company and, like many of the kids in our neighborhood, he bought one. Around us were 427 Corvettes, Shelbys, Boss 429 Mustangs, and every other muscle machine you could imagine.
Mike had his Road Runner.
Those cars became part of our lives. Every Sunday night, Mike would take us to Slinger Speedway to watch the races. We cheered on the local legends—Willie Goeden, Fuzzy Fassbender and the rest of the drivers who thrilled the crowds around that track.
The racing didn’t always end when we left the speedway.
On the way home, there was a little stretch of road that became our own unofficial quarter-mile. It never took long before someone would pull up alongside us. More often than not, it was Kenny Wiedmeyer in his Boss 302 Mustang. Then the games would begin.
Looking back, we had our share of shenanigans. Fortunately, unlike some others, we made it through those years with nothing worse than a few stories to tell.
What Mike probably never realized was how much those experiences influenced me. They sparked a lifelong passion for classic cars that remains with me to this day.
As I write this, I serve as Senior Advisor for the Iola Car Show. On the grounds stands a replica 1959 gas station that I helped create. Inside are countless memories from a lifetime spent around automobiles. Among them hangs one of my most treasured possessions—a replica of Mike’s West Bend West letter jacket.
Every time I see it, I’m reminded of where that passion began.
Life, of course, moves forward.
The years passed. We raised families. We stood up in each other’s weddings. We became godfathers to each other’s only sons. We shared the milestones that brothers share when life carries them from childhood into adulthood.
Then came Mike’s passing.
Click HERE to read the obituary for Mike Fechter
Like everything else in life, people change, circumstances change, and time changes all things. But what time can never take away are the memories.
When I think of Mike, I think about fishing trips, football games, muscle cars, family gatherings, and the countless moments that defined a lifetime of brotherhood. No person, no circumstance, and no passage of time can ever erase those memories.
That is why I wanted to write this story.
Not because Mike sought recognition, and not because he demanded attention. In fact, he was just the opposite. He contributed quietly and without fanfare. He treated people with respect. He earned admiration not by demanding it, but by being the kind of man others naturally respected.
For most of my life, people would ask me:
“Are you Mike Fechter’s brother?”
Today, I answer that question with pride.
Yes, I am.
And I always will be.
I miss him. I love him. And I consider myself fortunate that for all those years, I had the privilege of being known as Mike Fechter’s little brother.
Mike was more than a flash in the pan. He was one of those rare people who made a difference without ever trying to. He did it quietly, softly, and without expecting anything in return.
Those of us who knew him were better for it.
And those memories will stay with me for the rest of my life.
