Beating me on the same patch of sacred asphalt where I spent many long hours in the rain, sun and ice as a devoted disciple working on my game. For years, I could assert myself as an older brother in a number of ways. None more fulfilling than using my size, quickness and court savvy to systematically pick him apart athletically. Always a competitive kid -a redhead born prematurely who had to fight just to stay alive he would curse, mope and grow angrier the more he lost. This satisfying pattern continued in an unbroken stream of games for years.
Older brother schools younger brother.
As reliable as death and taxes. The world flowing to its natural rhythms. I am not sure when it happened or even where. Beating me from the outside with threes. Beating me inside the paint with baby hook shots.