I'll Bet You Can't

"Go on, do it."

"But it's heavy."

"You might get it off the floor."

"I will!"

"Here, I'll move it away from the wall."

My brother Bob had to do whatever I did. He was always trying to do better than me, but he never did. I would bait him with things knowing he'd take over and I'd get to tease him about how bad it turned out.

His anger when I did that was spectacular and, like brothers do, I pushed hard. Once carving a soap bar he couldn't get right he got so frustrated he ran to the kitchen, grabbed a meat cleaver and threw it at me. If he hadn't been so lividly angry I'd probably be dead. He missed my head by a couple inches.

This time I was eleven and he was eight and it involved an old bird cage stand with a wide base, a post and a big looped hook to hang the cage in and it only weighed a couple pounds. I'd struggled moving it, grunting, pretending it was heavy and knew he'd try just to prove he was as good as me.

I oooffed, uggged and aarrrged it to the center of the garage and slammed it down. "There, I'll bet you can't! I dare you to do it!" He could not resist the bet and the dare. He got himself set to lift a very heavy thing then in one motion snatched it and heaved.

I don't know how he kept the hook from hurting him or tearing his clothes, but he threw it so hard it went through the sheet rock ceiling.

The look of utter shock and horror on his face knowing our parents would be very angry was worth every second of the punishment we both got.