Aug 29 - Video Games
There was only one video game at which I ever beat Brandon when I was young: MarioKart, the GameCube version. I had more practice, knew the maps, understood the controls, and was just all-around better. However, that’s where it ends. If it were an option, I always wanted to be on Brandon’s team, because I thought I would win and felt certain loss was the only outcome otherwise. In fact, it doesn’t occur to me until this moment that I lacked the natural dexterity of being older and the practice that Brandon had. Son of a bitch. I thought Brandon was a god. He just spent hours and hours playing games. Oh well, onward.
The game that consumed more of Brandon’s misspent youth than any other was Halo. As they got older, he and his friends used to say that they couldn’t believe the amount of time they wasted on that game. This problem was only augmented by Brandon’s fiercely competitive nature. He once missed an important class in college because he was in control of the ping pong table and was defending his winning streak. My favorite memory I have in this area, besides the general anger Brandon expressed by shouting at screens and — almost — throwing controllers, is a small joke Brandon made after he had broken his hand.
TO ARKANSAS
Brandon was going to college in Arkansas. He went primarily to get away from home. I’m sure a bevy of motivations prompted his removal: classic “get away from mom and dad” syndrome, a growing disagreement on God and morality with those in authority around him, a genuine desire to try new things and start over. But, I think that the greatest reason by far was that he wanted to leave the rather troubled home life that was my childhood. Everyone has a sob story, and I’m not interested in going into mine here. (Well, outside of the sob story that is this entire website.)
In any case, to Arkansas he went. This experience did not last long, a year or two at most. Brandon was most certainly a person who violently bumped into boundaries. Stress and flourishing alike saw him expand past what his role was expected to be, and I for one greatly admire that. Speaking of bumping into things, let me get to the point and talk about a broken hand.
The story goes like this: One day Brandon was playing team volleyball. Someone did something that made him angry, fairly common for him. In lieu of punching the offending party, my dear brother turned to a brick wall and launched his fist full-force into it. His knuckles promptly broke free and traveled to the back of his hand. After examining this new arrangement for a bit, Brandon slid the bones back into place and waited a few days before coming home to have surgery. Go to the fucking doctor, you bastard! Gauze covered his hand, and a wax block, stabilizing the pins which held everything together, stuck out from the bandages.
As a funny side note, Brandon couldn’t get his hand through sleeves, and, when he returned to college during an Arkansas winter, he had to walk around with a blanket covering him. When confused friends asked what the hell he was doing dressed like that, he would just hold up his hand and keep walking.
Here’s the punchline. Brandon and I were talking while he was home with his damaged appendage — I’m so glad he took the time to talk to the arrogant prick that was me back then — and the conversation hit a natural lull. With no more effort than if we were talking about the weather, he spoke again.
“Hey, Ethan.”
“Yeah?”
“I bet you could beat me at Halo right now.”
We laughed.
