one day, a tennis ball rolled into the gutter.

normally, this wouldn't be a big deal.  but on this particular day, it was, because the older brother's special friend was over, and they were playing some sort of game that required a tennis ball, and that was the last ball that they had.  so, the older brother found a pick axe in a corner of the garage, and, slung over his shoulder, made his way to the lid of the manhole cover nearest to the gutter.  it had a series of concentric circles, and on one of the larger circles was a small hole, a little less than a golf ball.  the older brother put the sharp end of the pickaxe into the hole, and wedged it at an angle.  then, he leaned his weight on the wooden handle to lift the manhole cover out.

he'd seen his father do it before, once, when something precious had fallen in.  he'd forgotten what it was, but he'd remembered how to do it.  with a grating sound that reverberated and came back at them from the mouth of the gutter, the lid shifted, tilted, and scraped its way out of its housing.  displaced, a hole into darkness opened.  the sunlight painted the first rung a burnt orange color.

the older brother had never gone down into the dark place below.  that one time before, the older brother had just sat back and watched as his father disappeared into the cobwebby darkness, to emerge a few moments later, dirtier and sweatier.  looking at the hole now, and standing beside his friend (who was, truth to tell, cooler than he was, and whose respect and approval was worth more than money at his middle school), the older brother was not about to jump in the hole himself, and risk betraying an ounce of dread or hesitation.  in fact, it had never been his intention to go down himself.

the younger brother was sitting and playing in a dirty corner of a nearby planted section of the sidewalk.  the younger brother was perhaps five years old (it was hard to remember the runt's existence, much less the date of his unwanted birth).  the older brother sauntered up to the planter box, the pickaxe slung over his shoulder, the special friend in tow, and purposefully stepped in the hill of dirt that the younger boy had apparently created.  a cloud of red dust rose up.  the younger brother looked up.  not angry.  just intent.

"hey runt," said the older brother.  "i need a favor."  he said the word "favor" in two distinct syllables, the first rising and supportive in tone, and the second dropping away suddenly.  the older brother glanced at his special friend, and the edge of his mouth curved upwards ever-so-slightly.

the younger brother nodded, smiled nervously.  he rose wordlessly, and, wordlessly, followed his older brother and the friend to the open hole in the pavement.

"our tennis ball," said the older brother.  "i want you to fetch it, and throw it out."  just as the younger brother, gazing at the hole, was about to nod, the older brother continued.  "i don't want you to bring me the ball," he said, "because you won't be able to grab the ladder with both hands if you try to come out.  i want you to find the ball, and throw it out.  got it?"

the younger brother nodded, smiled eagerly.

it was rare that his older brother ever even acknowledged his presence.  to be given an important task, and a relatively simple one at that, well, it seemed almost too good to be true.