The Shooter Brother Turns

The Shooter Brother celebrated his birthday this weekend, and just as before, he's an unconscionable 7 years and 3 months older than me, which means he's well and truly ancient. But since it's his birthday, and I was reminded of him for a good reason today, let's get into it.

I take after the Shooter Mom, which means I'm a Shetland Human and a gambler. The SB, on the other hand, is positively moose-like for our family, and was always a good athlete. Even today, working on bad knees and with other ailments, he's a plus hockey goalie in a San Diego area rec league, playing against guys half his age. When he was a teenager, he was a star QB before having his leg broken, and in his brief time in college before deciding that the Marine Corps was more to his liking, he was a borderline minor league hockey prospect. Had he been single-minded in his purposes, I suspect he could have had a cup of coffee at higher levels; the man had wheels and was a good teammate. (Though maybe it's just asking too much of a not really all that large guy from the Philly suburbs breaking into the league in the early 80s.)

The SB was always a jock, and he was always eager to get a game going. He was also the only male in my life after age five, thanks to family issues, and that's a lot to ask at age 12-13, really. So he (had to? probably) take me along to pick'up games with him and his friends for years, despite me being less than interested or good at things, really.

I had moments, I suppose, of non-suckiness, or perhaps the SB was just good enough to make his friends put up with me for his presence. But more important to him was the idea that I'd be a good sport. He'd insist on everyone on his team shaking hands with the opponent after the game was over, no matter how things ended, or how convinced he was that the other team were dirty or unworthy. And a decade later, I found myself playing the same pick-up games for fun, and thanking people for playing in the same way.

Tonight as the Shooter Eldest groused over losing at Wii Golf, the words of the SB came back to me, thirty years later -- and helped, as I (a) gave her a good talking to, and (b) remembered that I, well, probably needed this talk myself a few dozen times, too.

So happy birthday, sir. You've made life better for any number of people, which is the only real measure of things, really. But you are still really, truly, brutally old. Sorry about that.