The Under Review - Issue 4 | Summer 2021

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My serve. I was pretty good at it, when I got the chance. I rarely hit the net or served out of bounds. Richie
stood near the net, ready to slam the birdie back at me, possibly directly at my face—one of his favorite
strategies. It’s hard to return a shot aimed between your eyes.
I hit a pop-up over Richie’s head, and he had to hustle. He got to it and connected, but the birdie wobbled
out of bounds. 3-16.
“Crap!”
The yard was now completely in shadow, and the air had turned chilly. The light in the kitchen window
shone yellow and warm, and I wished I was in there with my parents, or better still, at the library.
“Hurry up, nitwit,” Richie said.
I served to the exact same spot, which he wasn’t expecting. He got there and eked the birdie over the net,
but I was ready and slammed it at his feet before he could react. 4-16.
“Piss!”
I won three more points before Richie scored with a line drive aimed at my crotch. He laughed when I
flailed and knocked the birdie out of bounds. 17-7.
“That’s why it’s called a shuttlecock,” he said, pleased with himself, before winding up and serving directly
into the net. 8-17.
I won the next four in a row. The curses flowed. Richie finally scored when I slipped and whiffed at another
line drive. 18-12.
I could sense him growing more and more frustrated, which was my brother’s main weakness. I could only
beat him at something—poker, ping pong, HORSE—if he got angry at himself. It was as if the anger made
him less coordinated, both physically and mentally. And lately, he’d been pissed off about a lot of things.
School made him mad, our parents made him mad, his friends made him mad—and I certainly made him
mad.
THE UNDER REVIEW