I live in the valley, at the bottom of a hill. Absolutely none of the property around my house is zoned for retail, so if either I or my brother want to buy snacks we have to hump it up the hill to the Husky station at the top of a pair of aging wooden stairs, flanked by crazy homeless people and other, more harmless but no less crazy homeless people.

My brother, Mac, was up there buying stuff yesterday when the cashier took a look at the name on his receipt.*

Cashier: McConnell? Are you related to Carson?
Mac: … She’s my sister.
Cashier: I still have the scar on my arm from when she hit me with a rake.

In my defense, I was seven.

*Mac never uses cash for anything. He will put three dollars on his debit card. It makes me crazy, which is probably why he still does it.

(I slapped this together as a minor assignment for my Creative Nonfiction class. The prompt was “the worst idea you ever had.”)

My brother Mac and I were born eleven months apart.

Please hold all comments on the biological implications of that fact until the Q&A portion of the evening.

Because we grew up so close in age, there was very little one of us did that the other didn’t. There was also very little one of us could do that the other couldn’t, except that Mac could throw a ball farther and I could lift a chair while bent perpendicular from the waist and then stand up still holding the chair because I’d been watching “Bill Nye the Science Guy” and decided to cheat using physiology.

It was with this “Anything He Can Do, I Can Do Better” attitude that I joined Mac’s U-10 mixed junior soccer team.

This was a terrible idea.

I became increasingly aware of this idea’s terribleness over the next few weeks as I learned that I didn’t like running unless something was chasing me (this is still the case) and that nobody was impressed by my chair trick and broad repertoire of veterinarian jokes (also still the case). As our first game loomed ever closer, in my desperation I asked to be put in goal since the position didn’t require any running or knowledge of game strategy (what little there was when the median age of the team was nine years old).

I considered this a fantastic idea until the opposing team scored their first goal. Through my leg. Not through my legs, as is the case with many goalies; the ball literally knocked my leg out from under me. Our team scored the next goal, but the scorer was eight years old so that goal was also scored on me. The next time the other team shot at the net it hit me square in the face. As I lay on the ground, to add injury to more injury, somebody stepped on my hand with their cleats.

I quit the team the next day. My parents were very understanding. They had been at the game.

Since then I have avoided team sports whenever possible, much to the dismay of a long line of junior high and high school gym teachers. My brother can now do many things I can’t, but he still can’t pull off the chair thing.