My little brother was always a much better athlete than me. This used to drive me absolutely crazy. No matter what the sport—football, basketball, baseball—he could always outrun, outshoot, and outswing me. This wasn’t because I had no game; it was simply because the little pipsqueak was tough as nails, athletically gifted, and imbued with a God-given desire to whip my butt.
When he inevitably outplayed me, I would be forced to lapse into “Older Brother Mode,” which typically involved pinning him down and cramming grass down his throat.
