My brother and I were in the basement of a home, wrestling in the dim light therein, when we found the entrance.

I was 17 at the time, my brother 14, although you would have thought the opposite ages by a looks.

Dale was tall, broad-chested, with shoulder-length black air that he never bothered to

groom beyond keeping it from his eyes.

He had achieved a physique and stature and man years

beyond his age which is why I had no qualms about roughplay. Neither did our dad

although our mom constantly reminded me to go easy on him, as if Dale would ever permit

me to restrain myself during our combat. We never watch professional wrestling and didn't abide

by its regulations or trends.

We'd simply grapple, slam, or toss each other around,

theatrically rough housing, giving ourselves made up titles

that often changed each round.

The basement was the only space in the house empty and wide enough for our competitions.

It was furnished, though the carpeting was old, and you were likely to get a nasty rug burn

as you would have been to have a hard landing if it were concrete.

Both of us sustained several bruises, scrapes and burns, but we look back on these fondly, proudly, as the days went by, reminders of fun times.

The discovery of that damnable portal happened one night when my brother, who I thought to be beaten, suddenly sprang

up and charged at me.

I had stood over him as he knelt on the ground, breathless after a prolonged session of grappling, during which I'd had the upper hand.

We've been fighting for nearly 15 minutes without rest, and if this one thing I always had

over Dale, it was stamina. He became exhausted fairly quickly, so when he came at me, I wasn't at all prepared.

His shoulders collided hard with my midsection, sending me back, him forward along with me, into the wall.

...