Best man speech examples for your brother

The first time I wore a tie, my brother tied it for me in the bathroom mirror, standing behind me, because he said you can't learn it facing someone.

I was twelve. It was for our grandpa's funeral. Max was sixteen, and he didn't say a word about why I was crying. He just tied it, twice, because the first one came out crooked.

I'm Wes, Max's little brother, and he has tied my tie for every big day since. My prom. My first job interview, over FaceTime, in a hotel lobby. My graduation, when he fixed it on the way to the stage and got told off by an usher.

That's my brother. He shows up for the small thing that makes the big thing possible, and he never makes a fuss about it.

Paula, the night before your first half marathon, Max stayed up until one in the morning pinning your race number on straight, because you'd said a crooked number felt like bad luck. You finished in two hours and four minutes. He still has the safety pins.

This morning, for the first time in my life, I tied his tie. It's a little crooked. He didn't fix it.

Please raise your glasses to Paula and Max.

For twelve years, I slept eighteen inches below my brother.

Hugo got the top bunk because he was older, and he reminded me every night by hanging one arm over the edge like a spider. He talked in his sleep. He once gave a full book report on Charlotte's Web at three in the morning, with a conclusion.

I'm Reid, the bottom bunk, and I have more stories than we have time for. I'm going to tell one.

When I was eight, I had nightmares for about a month. I never told anyone, but Hugo figured it out. So every night he'd lean over the edge and ask me something like, "Would you rather have fins or wings?" until I fell asleep. He did that every night for a month. He was ten.

Ivy, you've heard Hugo talk in his sleep, because he told me you've started answering him. Last month he said, "Pass the salt," and you said, "Get it yourself." He's never been more in love.

Hugo, you were the best roommate I ever had. Ivy has the top bunk now, and you're in good hands.

Everyone, please raise a glass to Ivy and Hugo.

I have a confession to make, and I'd like to make it in front of our mother.

The broken garage window in 2009 was a baseball, not a bird. The car that came home with no gas was not a mystery. And every single time, I'm the one who told her it was Simon.

I'm Felix, the little brother, and for most of my childhood I was a professional snitch.

Simon never once told on me back, though. Not when I dented his bike, not when I read his diary out loud to my friends. He'd get grounded, and the next morning he'd still drive me to school.

When I was nineteen and dropped out of college, I was scared to tell our parents. Simon drove four hours to sit next to me at the kitchen table while I did it. He didn't say a word. He just stayed.

Hazel, you're marrying a man who takes the blame and keeps showing up anyway. You know that already. When your apartment flooded last winter, he left his own birthday dinner to bail water with you until two in the morning, and he didn't even take his cake.

Simon, I owe you about a hundred apologies. Here's one, in public: I'm sorry, and thank you.

Please raise your glasses to Hazel and Simon.

My brother Miles was born four minutes before me, and he has brought it up every day for thirty-one years.

Four minutes. That's how he got the window seat, the first driving lesson, the bigger bedroom, and the last slice of every birthday cake our mom ever made. I'm Rory, the younger twin, and tonight, for once, I go first.

People ask what it's like to be a twin. Mostly it's being mistaken for someone who can't parallel park. It also means there has never been a day in my life when I was on my own. When I broke my arm in fourth grade, Miles wore a sling for a week so I wouldn't be the only one. Nobody asked him to. The school nurse was very confused.

Aisha, Miles told me about you before your second date. He called me and said, "I think I'm going to marry her," and then, "Don't tell Mom yet." That was four years ago. I kept the secret for three.

Miles, you've had four minutes on me my whole life. I'm glad Aisha gets all the rest.

Please raise your glasses to Aisha and Miles.

When our dad got sick three years ago, the first person I called was my brother. He answered on the first ring, at two in the morning, and said, "I'm already in the car."

I'm Ian. Gabe is my big brother, and one way or another, he's been in the car my whole life.

He drove me to my first day of high school so I wouldn't have to take the bus alone. He drove eight hours to watch me lose a wrestling match in the first round. And every Sunday while Dad was in the hospital, he drove Mom there and back, and he never once let her see him worried.

Gabe isn't loud about love. He doesn't do speeches. He'd rather clean your gutters than tell you he misses you. So when he called me last spring and said, very fast, "I met someone and I need you to meet her," I knew it was big.

Sadie, the first time I met you, you asked Gabe about Dad before anyone else in the room did. You'd been dating a few months, and you already knew what mattered to him. Later that night I watched him laugh at something you said until he had to put his drink down. I hadn't seen him laugh like that in a long time.

Dad's doing well, by the way. He's right there, and he's already cried twice.

Gabe, you've spent years driving everyone else where they needed to go. Sadie, it's your turn to drive.

Please raise your glasses to Sadie and Gabe.

Zach asked me to keep this under a minute, so I'll be quick.

I'm his brother Cal. For twenty-eight years, Zach has been the one who fixes things: my bike, my résumé, and my car, twice.

Wren, the night he met you, he told me you'd laughed at his worst joke. He said, "She laughed at the chicken one." Nobody laughs at the chicken one.

Wren, thank you for laughing at the chicken one. Somebody had to.

To Wren and Zach.