Clipped

Turnover

My brother stopped talking to me last year. Kinda half-assed at first, like every sibling does after a fight. Then there was some stupid argument, and that was it. No more trips to the ghetto movie theatre, no more backyard basketball, no more street fighter, not even a "'Sup?" when I got home.

It gave me fits and stress and even a nervous breakdown at one point, until a psychiatrist helped me realize I had to stop letting him win. So I blew it off. He turned into the lady living upstairs- just another body in the house. And at this point, my parents seemed to dump the onus on him. I had tried to make reparations, and everything from this point on was him being stupid. The weight was lifted. Yea, it sucked that we weren't chillin' like we used to, but his freakin' loss. I had friends that were actually worth my time and effort.

When I came back from college for the first time, there was an Australian family staying with us. The son, Jackson, was 10 years old, and being a product of the Generation Tech, he was playing a video game when I first saw him. I said hey, looked at the screen, and thought there was a football game on until I remembered he was holding a controller. "Musta got the new version while I was gone," I thought to myself, as I walked to my room.

I was reading the newest issue of The Source when Evan came home later that night. I thought he actually looked up and said, "Hey" but I wasn't totally sure. I raised an eyebrow quizzically, but went about my business when he kept on towards the kitchen. The next few days, Evan had school, but Jackson and I didn't (duh- vacation) so we played each other in NFL 2k2 a time or two a day to pass dead time. The third day, my eyebrow crept up again when Evan walked in and sat down to watch us play, actually offering advice or commentary every so often. We still hadn't said much more than "what's up?"

The next day was Saturday. I slept in, and awoke to an empty house. A note on the kitchen table told me Dad was at school, Jackson and his fam were being tourists, and Mom and Evan were at the store. I decided to burn a few brain cells attempting to lead the New York Giants to simulated Super Bowl victory. Somewhere in the middle of week three (and trying to stage a 21 point comeback with 5 minutes left), Mom yelled, "Hi Honey!" from downstairs.

Evan tromped upstairs, jacket still on. He froze in the doorway, lips pursed in a silent "Oh." He leaned forward, then back, then forward again and stepped into the room. He sat on the chair to my left, and watched in silence for the next few plays.

"You shoulda run the iso."

That threw me off guard. "Isa-what?"

"Isolation. Run up the middle. I form. It works every time."

"Aight."

The game wound down, and I successfully used the ?iso? to run out the clock and preserve my victory. Evan leaned over and grabbed the controller.

"Lemme in. I'll take you with the Pack."

"Say what?! Giants all the way! You?re on, kid."

We turned towards the TV, hunkered down into playing position, and let the games begin.