Every Friday morning, I grab my beat-up Spalding, lace up my super old Nike Flights, and meet my younger brother on the cracked asphalt of our local playground court for some one-on-one hoops. Best of three, games to 11, win by two. 

We’ve been at it for 40 years—four decades of sweat, trash talk, hard fouls and a rivalry that’d make Riggs and Murtaugh bicker over who’s too old for this shit. This Friday, though? Friday was a classic. A slugfest. A 50-minute, back-and-forth brawl that deserves its own old school VHS highlight reel like Jordan’s “Come Fly with Me.”. If you play one-on-one a lot, you know. 50 minutes is a looooong damn game.

Here’s the rundown: My brother’s the real deal. Taller, quicker, younger, legit hoops chops—captain of our high school team back when Penny Hardaway was dropping dimes on SportsCenter. Me? I captained the swim team and lift a lot, so my game’s more muscle than finesse—think rec league warrior who fouls hard but can get hot from downtown. He’s got actual talent and wins most of the time. 

But Friday morning, with South Florida’s 80-degree muggy heat turning the court into a sauna, we went toe-to-toe like it was Game 7 of the NBA Finals, even though it was only Game 2 of our series (I lost game one, 7-11).

The game started perfectly, and by that, I mean I was on fire. I’m up 5-0 quick—threes dropping like Reggie Miller at the Garden, fadeaways raining, even a scoop lay-up that felt smooth as hell. I’m feeling it. Then my brother wakes up. He backs me down in the post, hits a couple of jumpers, and drains a three (counts as one—house rules). Suddenly, it’s 5-5. Then 5-6. Then 5-7. I fight back to 7-7, and from there, it’s a slugfest; Rocky and Apollo standing in the center of the ring, but instead of trading blows we’re trading buckets.

Drives, threes, lay-ups, twos. Shots clang off the rim, we’re bent over, hands on knees, sucking wind like we just ran a set of high school gassers. 

It’s 9-9, 10-9, 10-10, 10-11, 11-11, 11-12, 12-12. A battle that won’t end with the score creeping past 11 because win-by-two is non-negotiable, and neither of us is backing down.

I catch a break—couple of jumpers bank in. He misses a few easy ones. We’re tied at 14-14, legs shot, lungs screaming, the sun roasting us alive. I’m thinking, One more, Jonboy. But my brother’s got three years and eight months on me—youth in mid-40s math. He digs deep, hits a baby jumper over my outstretched hand—clean. Then spins baseline like Hakeem in his prime and drops another. I’m in his face both times, hands way up, but they go in. Clean. Good shots. 

Game over: 14-16.

I lost. Man, I hate losing. But then I catch my breath and look at us: two mid-40s dudes, pushing 50 minutes on a playground, battling like it’s the 90s all over again. That’s no L. That’s a W—a memory that’ll outlast my knees and his jump shot.

If you’re lucky enough to live near a sibling or longtime good friend, I can’t recommend setting up a weekly or at least regular game of whatever you’re into: hoops, tennis, golf, doesn’t matter. Just something you can go head-to-head in, sweat it out and reminisce about later.

Sure, over the years most of the games will blend into one, but as most dudes will tell you, it’s the time spent doing the thing that’s the most fun, whether you’re 14 or 44 or 74 and beyond.

 

Jon Finkel is the Editor-In-Chief of Midlife Male. You can follow him on Twitter/X, Instagram, and LinkedIN.