This Vine has a very simple caption: “My twin boys and sportsmanship.” Within those five words is a short lifetime of two male children, inextricably linked by their own genetics and rendered inseparable not by choice, but by the bonds of family (and their parents needing to keep an eye on them). Theirs is an endless, constant battle for attention, toys, seats in the car, the Player One video game controller, among countless others. Life is a battleground, on which a war of attrition is fought. Which is why you don’t make those kids wrestle each other.
Listen: I’m a twin. I’ve been told that many twins have a special bond, that they’re each other’s best friend. The two sets of twins in the NBA, the Morrises and the Lopezes, certainly give off that image. And sure, it’s true of my brother and I now, but as kids? Mortal enemies. We weren’t even put in the same class at school after first grade, we were so disruptive. Of course, everything we did was a competition, and losing to our twin was unpalatable. Each of us accused the other of cheating at every victory. Tantrums were thrown. Which is why our parents didn’t make us wrestle each other.
Note the expression on the puncher’s face above. Is he given any satisfaction by sucker-punching his brother in the nards? Of course not, he’s still torn up about losing. That nutpunch was the only thing he could do to make sure his brother didn’t enjoy his victory, because the only thing worse than losing to your brother is seeing your brother win. Which is why you don’t make those kids wrestle each other.
