Kevin is a brat. We had always been cool for the 4 holidays a year we see each other, but not after the charity dodgeball tournament at our church.

Usually he just quietly sulks on the couch while I get drunk off free wine. Most of the time he's on his phone looking at 9gag. But that hormonal little demon ripped my ass open this past Sunday afternoon.

I don't know what came over this kid. Maybe his mom told him he could have hot dogs and mac and cheese for dinner if he actually tried. Maybe his 17-year-old babysitter was watching. I don't care. That prepubescent child wiped the gymnasium floor with me.

Oh and believe me, I tried. I may not have trained or worked out in the past 3 months for that matter, but I put my heart and soul into that tournament. My knees are covered in scabs from my ducks and dodges, but Kevin has a missile launcher for an arm. The bastard. Is this really how I'm going to go out? Whoop-able by my idiot nephew?

I think he even specifically targeted me. When I raced for the front lines and lumbered in reverse with my highly sought after plush purple ball, I could feel the heat from his eyes as he zoned in on me. Every single time, I was the first one he took out with a fury unleashed and a snarl on his face. His parents aren't even divorced.

I don't even know how to treat him this coming holiday. I would give him the cold shoulder, but I think he'd like that. I guess my only solace is that in all likelihood, his time in middle school is a miserable experience.