I thought about it for a second. Finally there was nothing I could do but admit it.

“Shit,” I said, “you said something that makes sense.”

“Thank you,” he said. “The optimal fighter to choose is Sub-Zero. He’s as quick as anyone, his recovery time is fast, so you can flow from one move to another almost seamlessly, and if you time his slide attack right, you can ‘juggle’ your blows—hitting your opponent with a combination of punches and kicks while he’s still stunned. Cheap, but effective. And his ice blast is faster than the spear throw of Scorpion, his duplicate. Plus, everyone knows blue is cooler than yellow.”

“Okay, you’re gonna have to stop, because I’m just that shocked you’re not a total moron.”

He ran the switchblade comb through his hair. “Talk, talk, talk,” he said. “Your talk is worthless! All that matters is victory. Come, we play!”

He got his mom to let us practice after the arcade’s normal hours. I guess that was pretty cool, but I still wouldn’t mop his damn floor. Instead he tutored me as I played Sub-Zero versus the computer, over and over again. I mastered the timing of Sub-Zero’s every move, his ice blast and his sliding kick—I mean, honestly, he only had two special moves in the very first Mortal Kombat, so that part wasn’t super hard. I gained patience in executing each block and punch and kick, learning not to overload the game with my incredible speed. And I perfected his glorious fatality, tearing the skull and the wriggly-squiggly spinal cord from one opponent after another.

Finally, after at least one hour of more or less pretty consistent practice…

“Holy shit!” I said. “I don’t know about you, Sensei Billy, but I’m really, really impressed with myself. Like, I am good on a cosmic level. Probably the best. Definitely better than you. I think I’m ready for some prime-time competition.”

“No!” he shouted. “Your skill is good, yes. Your speed is good, yes. But you still talk too much! And it’s not even cute in a ‘precocious little child’ way! It’s just annoying! You’re not ready!”

“Nah, I’m totally ready.”

He sighed.

“Whatever.”

The next day after school I got to Pinball Pedro’s and went straight back to that sweaty corner of champions. His face grim, Sensei Billy put down a stack of prize tickets even bigger than the first one—absolutely huge, enough to buy one of those shoe-phones you got with a subscription to Sports Illustrated. A crowd gathered around, all my bros were there—it felt like the whole arcade was watching, waiting to see the little ten-year-old get humiliated yet again.

But unlike last time, I didn’t even sweat it. Unlike last time, I barely even cared. I knew I would dominate. And that’s exactly what I did.