We were laughing too hard to hear her. Three minutes later, Mason had me pinned to the floor. I could have fought harder, but the kid needed a win.

My brother still lived in one of Mom and Dad’s houses on the property and “worked” for Dad, which basically meant that he played video games all day until it was time to start drinking. It annoyed me. I mean, yeah, I was definitely the A student in the family, but he was plenty smart. He could have gone into sales with Dad. He could have moved away and become a sports agent—a job he was offered numerous times after the accident. He could have coached a high school team, taught a few classes, too. My brother had a lot to offer the world, a lot more than just his once-great pitching arm. I wished he could see that. But he couldn’t. Greer and I used to joke that when Mom and Dad died we would get custody of Mason. But it really wasn’t that funny because it was true.

Mason had been Cape Carolina’s star pitcher. In a town where baseball is as important as oxygen, that is the top honor a boy can hope for. I spent my childhood on the sidelines, my activities and practices always taking a back seat to his. I had a love-hate relationship with Mason’s stardom: When it got in my way, it was a pain. But when it got me something I wanted, it was awesome. When people would talk about the kid from Cape Carolina who was the next Babe Ruth, I’d casually say, “Oh yeah. That’s my brother.” And then, suddenly, all eyes were on me. I was famous by extension.

Even as a kid, I knew I had a lot of things Mason didn’t—I was smart. I had goals and ambitions. I had a big imagination. I was a good writer.

Mason could pitch; that was it. Even when I was really young, I realized that Mason was cool and a good athlete, but that was all he had. As a kid, though, that’s all that matters. I wanted to be him so badly I could taste it.

Sometimes, when I’m questioning the type of man I really am, I think I almost wanted that night to happen. But of course I didn’t. I’d never have wished this life for him.

Sometimes I envied his lack of responsibility. But I knew he carried pain. He had lost the love of his life, too. Only, the love of his life was baseball. In some ways, his complete devolvement was a lesson. When Greer died, I knew I couldn’t end up like Mason. I’d seen that there was a fine line between grieving and living in your old bedroom. Her death was the worst thing that could have happened to me, but I didn’t want my mom doing my laundry for the rest of my life.

“Good to have you home, ass face,” Mason said as he helped me up.