Football Fiasco

I know it might not be the best thing to do before dinner, but I ask my brother to come downstairs to play a game of football. We run down to our basement (it’s January and freezing outside!), grabbing the Nerf football.

“Don’t hit the lights or Dad will kill you,” I remind him (graciously). I kick off. Within minutes he scores a touchdown after nearly flattening me against our humidifier. Safest. Game. Ever. After he scores, I score, he scores, and I score; the game bouncing back and forth like the ball in my grandmother’s broken First Order pinball game.

Note: I am thirteen. My brother is seven (eight? nine? no, I think he’s seven). Around the end of the game, he has five and a half points—the half being from a safety—and I have five.

I tell him, “Bro, that safety is keeping me from winning.”

He grins. That is, until I score. His grin disappears in a flash.

“You told me I had the winning point!” He runs back upstairs. I hadn’t meant it like that. I try to explain to him that (still because of his safety!), if he scores, he’ll be winning again. But does he stick around to listen? Nope. Earlier, I had proclaimed that: “No one wins; its’ just for practice and fun.” But it seemed like he still thought we were playing to compete. Maybe I was. I played a little too hard on him sometimes; I needed to keep his age in mind. (No, literally, is he eight or nine?)

I walk back up the stairs. My brother and mom are sitting on a couch in our living room. Mom looks tired. Instead of blaming my brother, I decide to apologize. I tell him I’m sorry, ask for his forgiveness, and tell him I will work on making the next game more fun for him.

Because that’s what brothers do.

He accepts my apology, and we leave to eat dinner, which just happens to be cheeseburgers. Our friendship has bee mended. And soon our hunger would be, too.