Why must a fun night out with my older brother always end in us fighting?
We’ve never really gotten along in the first place. I’ll admit it. But now that my brother and I are both aspiring for similar career goals, we’ve actually reached a common ground: our love for the creative ad industry. For the past several months we have been talking more than in all the 23 years I’ve known him…and, he actually reaches out to me for help. Kind of an honor, having someone that is two years my senior seek out advice from his “little bro.”
So where did it all go wrong this weekend? Atlantic City. I’m not sure at what point in the night (morning) we clashed heads, or even what I said to provoke it–I’m convinced I didn’t really do anything out of line at first, although that may just be the “not my fault” syndrome kicking in–but we ended up physically duking it out on the beach at about 3 A.M.
I think it had to happen eventually. I could have walked away, and so could he. But the amount of alcohol consumption up to that point prevented either of us from thinking logically. And, he was down $260 at the casinos, so he was already a little on edge to say the least. So, we squared off, touched fists, and round 1 began.
I’d like to think I’m a lover, not a fighter. So this was a rarity for me. The ONLY person I have ever seriously fought is my brother. All other issues and ignorant instigators I simply ignore, because it’s never that serious. But somehow when he and I hang out, we could be having the best of times and sharing tons of laughs, then out of nowhere creeps something unsettled from under the sibling rivalry carpet. And this time Mom and Dad weren’t around to break us up. It was just me, him, and a sand-filled boxing ring bordered by the boardwalk and the ocean.
Needless to say, it got pretty wild. Many poorly planned punches were exchanged. Sand flew everywhere as we grappled, forming angry snow angels into the beach. I caught him with a right to the forehead, which almost immediately grew into a cartoonish lump. He jabbed me in the eye and nose somethin’ fierce. At one point, he put his years of watching Ultimate Fighting to good use and had me down on the ground, arms tied, hovering over me with his right fist in the air, saying “don’t make me do this.”
As I looked upward at my big brother, I suddenly had a moment of clarity. I didn’t want to do this anymore. This was a fight that was never going to end, unless we ended it right there.
Sure, I could use the anger and pain to explode back, shake him off using my knees, flip him over and send a barrage of fists back at him with downward force (I actually had a vision flash through my mind of exactly how I was going to do this). But no. I had to stop this now. Plus…he was winning, fair and square. Big bro had me pinned down in full-guard, my back to the sand.
So I gave up. As difficult as it was to kick my stubbornness and let him win, I did. I put both my hands in the air, palms open, as if prompted to by a police officer, and said “you win.” Then, I asked him for two high-fives.
He answered my request with his palms in mine, and then pulled me up on my feet. We brushed the bloody sand off of ourselves and walked down the beach back to the hotel, laughing and joking again, just like earlier in the evening before it all went sour. It was a very strange moment.
So last night marked the first time in my adult life that I completely regressed back to sheer caveman instinct. For once, words could not solve the problem. Any almost-cogent argument immediately got convoluted with 23 years of the past–not to mention drunken angst. And two grown men, who by nature should be best friends, completely let go of all sanity for a few moments and just beat the living shit out of each other.
Do I regret it? I want to say yes. But I think it was necessary.
This morning, we spent most of the day laughing and joking, as if we really were best friends. And I don’t think I will ever fight anyone again. Especially not with my own blood.
