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May 27, 2008
fratricide: cheap shots i have thrown, part v
I received a last-minute phone call that a pickup soccer game needed players. And so I drove the haul to Chillicothe, OH, and I inserted myself at right fullback. We were a full half-hour into the game before the ball came into my hemisphere. The other team's left wing looked familiar. Really familiar. Wow, what a coincidence.
If you ever meet my brother, Russ, you will come away with the impression that when I was, say, 8 and he was 17, I beat the crap out of him and not vice-versa. The fact is that there were exactly five times I ever got the best of him. This is the story of the last.
He was surprised, too. And then we realized the significance of the moment: this was the first time we would ever compete against each other as adults. This man was once the boy who drove tomato stakes into the back yard so that I could practice ball-handling by weaving through them. Now, he was weaving through me.
He beat me badly the first time. Completely pantsed me and got an easy goal. And then I got a couple of stops. But in the scintillating scoring system that is soccer's, one goal is an enormous lead, and as such Russ could claim to be leading our personal contest. Another goal and he would achieve immortal bragging rights.
To aid his quest for immortality, his team started funneling him the ball on every advance. Eventually, inevitably, he got behind me again. I slipped. He drove toward the goal. The goalie slipped. Russ drove to point-blank range and stopped. He was going to make the net really billow. This was for immortality! And so my showboating brother selected his shot, cocked back his leg, and...
He doesn't remember what happened next, but I do. I hit him so hard from behind that I knocked him a few yards out of bounds. His skinny body made a wet celery sound. The ball remained where he'd left it. I was yellow-carded, of course, and he was awarded a penalty shot. He staggered to the ball and weakly kicked a roller. The goalie had no problem stopping it. Russ took himself out of the game and remained out for the next, oh, 15 years.
He blames me for the end of his glorious career. And for his subsequent battles with back pain. I may or may not be responsible, but what I will not concede is that I had somehow made an improper play.
"YOU TOOK ME OFF THE BALL, JOHN!" he'll snarl angrily.
"I'm sorry, did you score?"
I'd show more of the conversation, but those are essentially the only two sentences we've spoken for the last 15 years.
posted by john at 7:39 AM • permalink