H-O-R-S-E

 

From the time I was eight years old until the age of sixteen, I lived with my family in a three bedroom, two bathroom ranch home situated on an acre of a lawn that featured three, count ‘em; THREE small evergreen trees. This square acre of green was surrounded on three sides by huge fields full of amber waves of grain, just outside of a town so small it made Mayberry look like San Francisco.

I suspect that my father never planted any more trees in that lawn all the time we lived there because he enjoyed the time he spent every Sunday riding his lawn mower, beer in hand, cigarette in his mouth, pondering his place in a world that would soon turn on it’s side and roll into the realm of the Flaming Absurd while the vibrations of the lawn mower he was riding on gave his lower back and rear end a nice, relaxing massage.

What he did do with all that space was build a basketball court in our backyard…

Loyal readers of Freakshow Magazine may  have met my 'little' brother Mike in some of my other stories, but this was Mike when he was about seven years old, my sister was about nine years old, and I was ten. The one thing I can tell you about my little brother at this age and throughout his life to date is this: Mike is extremely competitive, and he DOES. NOT. LIKE. TO. LOSE.

I can think of no better illustration of Mike’s competitive nature than this story about our game of H-O-R-S-E (and you HAVE to spell it that way, or the NBA police come to your door…):

My Dad dug the foundation for a regulation half-court, poured the concrete, lined the court with stained railroad ties, and used another railroad tie for the backboard and basket to hang on.

My father, in his high school days, was quite the sportsman. The school I went to still has the trophies he won with the football team, and he also was a star at basketball as well, whereas I am to sports what Stephen Hawking was to hot dance moves.

We played a lot of basketball on that court (Mom never participated. She stayed in the house and enjoyed the quiet.), but we also played H-O-R-S-E: a game where one person picks a spot on the court and tries to shoot the ball into the basket. If they make it, they get a letter ‘H’ and then the next person has to stand in that spot and make the shot. The first person to get all the letters of the word ‘horse’ wins.

Along with those game rules, my father added an addendum:

“If you lose a game of H-O-R-S-E (yes, I know. But I’m REALLY afraid of the NBA police…) the losers will get on their knees and bow down before the winner and utter these sacred words: ‘You are the best H-O-R-S-E player in all of creation!”

Then, you had to stand up, turn in the direction of the neighbor’s house (Dad put this in because their dogs always crapped in his yard), and crow like a rooster at the top of your lungs.

None of us liked to lose, of course, but my brother DESPISED losing with a burning passion that could supply energy for a small city if you could find a way to stick the power cables up his ass. He gnashed his teeth and SPIT out every single word he was supposed to say while bowing, but the crowing he hated the most, and if he hated doing all of this after losing to my father, who would do a victory dance while we were bowing to him, he went positively NUCLEAR if he lost to me.

Sometimes Mike would refuse to perform the “Loser Ritual” and Dad would have a stern, and sometimes heated, discussion with him on the merits of good sportsmanship. Sometimes, Mike and I would fight after a game, and I would smack him around the yard until Dad had a stern, and sometimes heated discussion with me on the merits of picking on someone my own size.

All of this nonsense ended when Mike grew taller than both Dad and I, started lifting weights and kickboxing. Now, there is no “Bow Down” games of H-O-R-S-E and my brother and I are friends, because he can wreck my shit.

Seriously: he’s like Lurch on LSD...