Growing up, I was fortunate enough to have a Big Brother. And not the Orwellian kind that watches your every move or calls the Thought Police on you. On the contrary, my Big Brother only thought I was cool when I let him kick a soccer ball at my head for target practice.
Just kidding. Surprisingly, he was the rarest breed of Big Brother, the kind that actually played games with his younger siblings (girl siblings, no less!), and didn’t make us feel like complete losers for following him around like the Pied Piper of Baby Sisters.
In fact, I have an impressive arsenal of games and hybrid sports that my brother made up, including, but not limited to: our version of rugby (basically, hallway soccer-slash-basketball with a ball made out of paper and brown packing tape, and the doors to our respective bedrooms as the goals), rooftop volleyball (I have yet to find a new, suitable ball for this game, despite having the perfectly-sloped roof atop my now-home in Tennessee), and a game called “Ten-Drop,” which was essentially Hot Potato cranked up to eleven. Let’s just say, it was a good thing the ball we used was soft (ish).
And now, the guy I spent most of my childhood idolizing and trying to emulate (at least on the soccer field), has a new little thing he gets to shape, mold, and use for target practice. (No pressure or anything, Mikey.) He and his beautiful wife just welcomed home their first son, the first nephew Hubs and I can claim on my side of the family. And I am thrilled for them.
If being merely my Big Brother is any indication, I know he’s going to rock this fatherhood thing the way Axl rocked the 80’s.