"So, when are you going to join the football team like your brother?"
I must have been asked this question countless times during my primary school days. After all, my brother was arguably one of the best football players of his generation. By the way, that was the consensus of the our school at the time. Goalkeepers rarely get groupies, but he was kind of the exception to that rule. I must have gained a couple of kilos with all the free snacks I hoarded from their bribes. Many a bag of corn chips passed my way in exchange for an introduction to my brother.
And would I keep my part of the bargain? Sure.
"Yo 'To!, " the younger me waving to my brother.
Pointing thumb in general direction of nameless girl, " This girl wanted to meet you."
I would then exit right, leaving a red faced girl and my brother bemused and chuckling. They must have thought of me as a brat. I think I was channelling my inner Godfather. Even though I hadn't even watched the Coppola classic yet.
(By the way, that's short for Toto. For non-Ilonggos, that's what younger siblings called their elder brothers. Nothing to do with the legendary ensemble band. Nor is it in reference to Dorothy's dog. Now you know.)
The truth was, even if I was interested in football (which I was), there was no way I was going to join the football team. As my brother once made clear, I had no skills. The only time I was going to score a hat-trick was if I had a game controller in hand.
So I would just stare back at anyone who would ask that question and smile back bemused.
My brother was my hero. Every time, he took to the pitch we all roared in unison. Every save he made, we felt we were blocking the shot ourselves. Every goal that went in, we shared in his agony.
I knew I was never going to be good enough, so I wasn't going to even try. But that didn't stop me from cheering him on.
Years later when I hit high school, I managed to play basketball well enough to challenge him. We would often play until dusk battling it out one on one. Dust flying everywhere, rubber slippers falling apart, sweat dripping in buckets... those were the afternoons we would battle it out. It would be in basketball where I would finally find a game that I could actually challenge him with. He had the better low post game, but I had the better range.
And one night I finally beat him. A jap-step forward, he edged backwards and then I rose up, throwing up a high arching shot from the outside.
Swoosh.
I celebrated like crazy that night.
And I haven't beaten him for years since.
He's still my hero.
So for taking the blame for the mess I left in your room...
For scripting some of the best G.I Joe battle sequences with my action figures when we were kids...
For cheering me on when I went to university...
For letting me win that game...
And for always watching out for me...
Happy birthday Toto Bryan.
P.S. I did play one football match in a pick up match at my university dorm.
I was the goalie.
And I was terrible.
