This could be another "first in the series of..."
I have three brothers. That's right. Three. And I wouldn't trade any of them, ever. Especially since they have now given me sisters!
(Good thing, guys, you were wearing out your welcome.)
It helps to have big brothers. It really does. They are nifty people. Obnoxious. Abusive. Fun.
It helps to have a little brother. Charming. Obnoxious. And someone to dote on and brain wash. Fun.
They have all saved me at different times in my life.
Here's the thing... my brothers let me hang out with them. Seriously! They really did. People are always shocked by that, but it's true, they let me hang out with them. And the four of us always liked hanging out together. Four is an excellent even number. Flag football teams are totally fair, and there is a very mathematical system of sharing treats.
I really, really, really love my brothers. Like, it's a little ridiculous, but I just like them. Especially as men, they have just turned out way better then I could've ever imagined!
So here's the time Matt (Second child syndrome bad. Don't call him 'Curly.' Beat me like a red-headed step-child. Super smart and funny and the most educated of us all now. So, basically, a champion) saved me from flying super-man style to my death.
It was a bright summer day in central Utah, and we were doing what we did best -- entertain each other. At this particular point in time, my oldest brother (I'll protect his name, because most of you know him. It's Jon) had entered some kind of alien zone and was off doing something else. Can you believe the GALL of that? Being a teenage boy and doing something without the approval of your younger and smarter siblings? Anyhow, little Nick is missing from this story. He was probably inside the house, but maybe he was off snake charming or something. Anyhow -- I keep dawdling in my story telling. I apologize.
So Matt (or Latt la Latt, if you prefer) and I were jumping on our trampoline. That piece of equipment was one of the wisest purchases my parents ever made, we spent many an hour on that baby. We were jumping, jumping, jumping. Since Matt has always been about seven inches taller then me at any given time, and much stronger to boot, we had developed a circus-worthy trick of him double-bouncing me (If you were raised in a third world trampoline-less country, to "double-bounce" means one person 'steals' the inertia of the other person and bounces twice as high! It's super-de-dooper fun) so high I could see over the roof of our second story house!
You might think this is an exaggeration. It is not.
Anyhow, I was flying into the sky, enjoying the view from the top of the bounce, when we got the sweet idea that Matt would double-bounce me while I did a front flip! Good idea, huh. We were full of them! We bounced in unison, getting the perfect amount of oomph, and on 1-2-3 he went down hard and I FLEW! Flew right off the trampoline in fact, somersaulting like the obedient flipper I was. I was upside down and was just starting to worry when
My breath was knocked out of me by the forearm of my big brother, slamming across my ribs mid-flight and pulling me right back on to the trampoline! I truly don't know how he got there so fast.
I couldn't breath... but hey, I was alive!
I remember finally catching some air and pushing myself from my back onto my elbows, squinting into the sun at my big brother. He was standing over me, his blond curls glinting, and looking mad -- 'cause, you know, I'd had the nerve to try to kill myself and he'd had to save me! It was a great sight.
Kinda like, 'I always thought you were Hercules-like, but now I know it.'
I was very impressed.
He's still pretty impressive, I gotta say. But DON'T tell him I said that.