Okay, maybe I was awfully delusional to even think that in my ripe age of 22, I'd still have undiscovered predisposed genes for greatness, but like a delusion, it was just an unshakeable belief to something untrue (fact reeks!).
My bro is a pro, he breathes tennis, his weapon of choice in bonking heads are his racquets, you can hear his blood sloshing through his veins when there is a big match and he unabashedly guards the remote clicker like a hyena guarding a cascass- he gives you a choice: espn or a head concussion. Not that we only have one tube in the entire house, but what pains me is the fact that he terrorizes everyone who gets 200meter within the big plasma, that is his territory, he peed all over it. This presents a painful problem- How can I appreciate the enlightening mumbling of Boomhauer? Or the comedones of my favorite stars? Ah! the banes of the youngest.
In tennis, which is his religion, He genuflects before the image of Nadal, he doesnt want me around everytime an epic game is going on because, chatterbox and mean machine that I am, I always quip the obvious. "Kuya, Look at Nadal's sweatstain around his armpit area, that must be reeking no?!", My brother, known for his succinctness, tells me to shut up, which only makes the matter worse, because when I am told to zip it, the Energizer Bunny possesses me.
This morning, as I was annotating the cereal carton's nutrition facts, He asked me If I would want to tag along with him to the court in the proviso that I'd refrain from throwing expletives and colorful imprecations at the players. ( yeah, I can curse in 15 languages)
We packed our stuff including bottles of Gatorade, an easy read book (I had a feeling I'd be spending more time in the court side than on the court, so, instead of needling other players and causing riot or dishing out bottled waters to the 'seasoned' players, might just as well bury myself in a book) , I wore a black shirt, to go with the ''dark horse of the court'' image. "Whats with the black shirt? It's a tennis court we'll be going to, not some memorial park!" snapped my brother, "Tell that to Andy Roddick kuya". I answered, and we drove on.
to be continued,im still digesting my lunch.
My bro is a pro, he breathes tennis, his weapon of choice in bonking heads are his racquets, you can hear his blood sloshing through his veins when there is a big match and he unabashedly guards the remote clicker like a hyena guarding a cascass- he gives you a choice: espn or a head concussion. Not that we only have one tube in the entire house, but what pains me is the fact that he terrorizes everyone who gets 200meter within the big plasma, that is his territory, he peed all over it. This presents a painful problem- How can I appreciate the enlightening mumbling of Boomhauer? Or the comedones of my favorite stars? Ah! the banes of the youngest.
In tennis, which is his religion, He genuflects before the image of Nadal, he doesnt want me around everytime an epic game is going on because, chatterbox and mean machine that I am, I always quip the obvious. "Kuya, Look at Nadal's sweatstain around his armpit area, that must be reeking no?!", My brother, known for his succinctness, tells me to shut up, which only makes the matter worse, because when I am told to zip it, the Energizer Bunny possesses me.
This morning, as I was annotating the cereal carton's nutrition facts, He asked me If I would want to tag along with him to the court in the proviso that I'd refrain from throwing expletives and colorful imprecations at the players. ( yeah, I can curse in 15 languages)
We packed our stuff including bottles of Gatorade, an easy read book (I had a feeling I'd be spending more time in the court side than on the court, so, instead of needling other players and causing riot or dishing out bottled waters to the 'seasoned' players, might just as well bury myself in a book) , I wore a black shirt, to go with the ''dark horse of the court'' image. "Whats with the black shirt? It's a tennis court we'll be going to, not some memorial park!" snapped my brother, "Tell that to Andy Roddick kuya". I answered, and we drove on.
to be continued,im still digesting my lunch.
