What a memorable night. I wasn’t good at the game, just definitely better than my brother. The prologue took place two weeks earlier, when my brother, a big-shot library attendant, bet $100 on one NFL 2k1 game. I agreed and proceeded with the virtual beat down of my brother.
If I lost, I was planning on paying him with my Christmas money. He wanted to pay me in something like weekly five dollar increments. Come on. We agreed that he would pay me the full amount whenever he could.
Fast forward to that fateful night. The terms were simple: double or nothing. We picked the same teams, Tampa Bay vs. Tennessee. I laid down another beating, something like 35-7 with him quitting in the midst of the fourth quarter. He yelled something along the lines of, “I’m really angry. That was a practice game. I’m telling mom.” So then we played the real game.
I shut him out. I remember that vividly. It was a triumph for little brothers around the world. To rub it in, I reminded him that it was his dish washing night. He disagreed and proceeded with the real-life beat down of his brother.
I told him I was running away or something. I booked it out of the house, not putting pants on or anything. I was eight years old at the time, so this rash behavior was understandable. No, wait a second, I was fifteen. It took three seconds in the January night to realize I should probably go back inside. I went to sleep after washing the dishes.
