My little bro had a tough life growing up. I’d like to say it had nothing to do with me, but that would be a lie.
I used to make him test out BMX jumps we made before my mate’s & I used it to make sure it was safe. If he stacked it, we re-evaluated the jump before making him try it again.
Another time we made arrows with BBQ skewers, BluTac & rubber bands to shoot at birds. I shot one at him & it got stuck half an inch deep in his knee. He started to cry so I had to pull out the “If you keep crying, mum won’t let us play with these anymore” line. He nodded & only sobbed for a bit when I yanked it out.
Another time I made him see if you could ride down the gravel road from the shearing shed at the top of the hill. He got the speed wobbles ¾ of the way down & really came unstuck. He needed a week off school, but it was a lesson we never forgot as kids; you can’t ride down that hill full speed.
It wasn’t all bad though. He couldn’t throw a Frisbee so I took him under my wing & taught him, making up names for different types of shots so I sounded superior & knowledgeable. The Sitter, the Fader, the Skipper, the Inside-out & more, I made up all that bullshit to impress him. When I visited him at Christmas, I caught him teaching his sons those same shots with the same names.
So all in all, I wasn’t a terrible big brother. Except that time when we were wrestling in the pool & he nearly drowned because I didn't feel him tapping out. I’m almost sure he’s recovered from that…
in Cumnock, New South Wales, Australia
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