I love my brother. I’ve always looked out for him. We never argue or fight. We were both bought up well by my parents and were taught to respect and protect each other. However, when the two of us sit side by side and play Winning Eleven (Japanese version of Pro Evolution Soccer) on the PS2, a bitter rivalry creeps in between us. We both become monsters hungry for victory. We become the worst of enemies. We taunt each other. We humiliate the other. We only want to win in style.
In the end I always emerge the victor.
I became used to winning until one eventful day where my brother taught me a very important lesson. Nothing lasts forever, especially a winning streak.
Almost a month after my disgraceful defeat, I’m yet again reminded of that moment I would rather soon forget. I take another razor sharp multicoloured fragment out of my foot.
I guess its Karma.
Since that day, I’ve found hundreds of splinters. Sometimes it feels like they are hunting me or more specifically, my feet. Every time I walk around my room, my feet seem to stumble on another plastic landmine. Like a bad case of dandruff, no matter how much I clean, they always reappear.
They keep tormenting me until I can find closure. I need admit to myself that I’m no longer the best. My throne has been taken and there’s nothing I can do about it. I have to accept the painful truth that I am a sore loser. I lost dishonourably. If I was a Samurai, I would have committed hara-kiri.
I hate losing.
A month ago we decided to play a 10 minute match on Winning Eleven. I pick my masterleague team Roma and my brother picks his, Lazio. This is a classic Italian derby. The masterleague teams are customizable and start with fake generic players. You manage the team by buying and selling players until you end up with your dream team. We play different tactics and use different formations. I use the classic 4-4-2 where as my brother plays a 5-3-2 formation. We can each have 2 classic players so I buy Diego Maradona and Marco Van Basten. My brother buys Pele and Johan Cruyff.
This should be an interesting match.
We pick a neutral stadium, a neutral crowd who will cheer intermittently for both sides and we pick the weather conditions. We both agree on a dry sunny afternoon. I’m shooting from left to right in the first half.
After the formal national anthem singing and hand shaking, the whistle blows and the match begins as my two strikers Gabrielle Batistuta and Marco Van Basten kick off.
The two Japanese announcers have an over exaggerated and excited demeanour when commentating which makes me and my brother laugh every time they speak. After the first few near misses the laughs are replaced by pure concentration. As soon as I kicked off I knew this wasn’t going to be my game. I get 4 yellow cards and hit the post and cross bar 6 times in the first half. Every foul my brother commits doesn’t even register as a foul.
The game is on his side today.
I score 3 goals in the space of 4 minutes. I’m gloating. Every time I’m in his 6-yard box I keep saying “shambles”. This really pisses him off. It works perfectly and unsettles him. Little do I know that these are the only goals I’ll be scoring. The first half ends 3-0 to me but at the cost of my striker getting a red card.
Now I’m down to 10 men.
During the break neither of us makes any changes. I simply switch my team’s tactics to counter attack. The second half begins and I’m shooting from right to left, my favourite side. This makes no difference as within a minute my brother’s striker Pele dribbles my entire defence and scores a 20 yard screamer. This goal was glitched. I swear the ball just goes through my keepers hands. I instigated the taunting, unaware of how much of it I’m about to receive. My brother opens his taunting account by uttering a word he made up that pisses me off more than anything “skilachi”.
3-1
I try to retaliate to no avail. He gains possession of the ball and passes it around so fluidly. He’s been practising at night. Little basted! He scores again with Pele. Just walks through my defence and picks his spot and tucks it in.
3-2
As soon as I kick off I try to dribble his midfield to get near his 6-yard box to unleash a Van Basten special but I get fouled and the referee doesn’t blow his whistle. The play continues with the ball in my brother’s possession. He runs down the right wing and swings in a cross where the ball meets Cruyff’s head and into the back of my net, “Skilachi”, I cringe in anger.
3-3
I can’t believe what’s happening. He’s picking my team apart. I’m beginning to feel really hot under the collar. I kick off again and lose the ball within seconds. I foul his player and get a 2nd yellow card subsequently followed by a red.
Now I’m down to 9 men.
He takes a long free kick right into my box. The ball falls to his midfielder Zidane who I accidentally foul. He’s awarded a penalty and I’m given another red card. I just lost my best defender, Roberto Carlos.
Now I’m down to 8 men.
He takes the penalty and easily slots it away. “Skilachi”. He keeps replaying the goal in slow motion and turning the camera a la Matrix.
3-4
Before I kick off, I pause the game and enter the menu where I substitute my attackers for defenders. I’m forced to change my formation and focus heavily on defending to limit the damage I’m taking. Once the game begins I take the ball and try to bide my time. I get slide tackled but no foul or card as usual and the game continues. One goal follows after another.
3-5
3-6
3-7
3-8
I have 4 defenders in my 6 yard box and only 3 midfielders. I barely keep the ball in my possession. I CANNOT believe this is happening. I’m in denial. No way is he beating me like this. I can hear him sniggering next to me. I finally get a break and the counter attack tactic works. I run forward with the ball and it’s just my midfielder and his keeper. I take the ball past his keeper and tap the ball where instead of going in the back of the net, it hits his side post and rolls straight to his keeper’s hands. Unbelievable! He boots the ball right out where it inexorably ends up in the back of my net.
3-9
This time he doesn’t say a word. I can still hear him sniggering but he now knows how pissed off I am. I just loose all focus on the game and try to foul any of his players within range. If I can get another red card and go down to 7 men the game will be stopped and I won’t suffer such a degrading defeat. He passes the ball through what’s left of my team and this time lobs my keeper. It’s a beautiful goal but I won’t tell him that.
3-10
I kick off for the tenth time and this time I run around in circles trying to keep the ball. That fails. He does a long pass into the box again where this time, his defender, Japp Stam, heads the ball into the goal. He tells me that shouldn’t have been a goal because it was offside. Condescending little shit. Naturally the offside wasn’t given.
3-11
I kick off and aimlessly kick the ball in any direction. The best goal is yet to come. He passes the ball down the left wing and runs down it with his midfielder. The ball is crossed into my box where Pele of all players performs a beautiful overhead kick and nearly tears the net out. For him that is the icing on the cake. For me that is the last nail in the coffin.
3-12
He jumps off the sofa in jubilation. My indignation gets the better of me. I throw my controller to the floor and pounce on the console and press the eject button. The tray opens and I take the shiny rainbow coloured disc out of the tray and with all my anger, shame and frustration snap it in my hand. The disc breaks into a thousand pieces of multicoloured light and scatters all over the room. Not only do I cut myself on the sharp shards of plastic but I just broke a £50 imported game. I strut out of the room and can’t look into my brother’s eyes because of the shame and the indignity, not to mention that I just broke one of my favourite games.
As always we hug afterwards and shake hands, no hard feelings between us after the game. He is my brother after all and despite losing to him so badly, I’m glad that it was him and not a stranger. We talk and joke about it to this day and as I find the last remaining shattered pieces of Winning Eleven, I finally find closure and a simple truth, it’s only a game, so just enjoy it!
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