There’s a moment in Suzan-Lori Parks’ Topdog/Underdog where the tension between two brothers, Lincoln and Booth, becomes so thick, so suffocating, that you feel it in your bones. This is not just a play about sibling rivalry—it’s a story of survival, of pain, of dreams that are never realized, and of love so tangled with resentment that it almost suffocates the possibility of healing. But above all, it’s about the weight of names, and the burden of living up to a legacy you never asked for.
The brothers Lincoln and Booth carry more than their names—they carry a history of abandonment, a history so painful that it molds the men they are, the men they wish they could be, and the men they will never escape. Their mother & father left when Lincoln was sixteen and Booth was eleven. No explanation. No goodbye. Abandoning them to the world with nothing but their names and each other. That’s when the game began.
From that moment on, Lincoln and Booth were not just brothers. They became each other’s keepers, bound together by a shared history of loss, a shared fear of being forgotten. No one else could understand their pain like they did. No one else had to grow up without the safety of a mother’s embrace or a father’s guiding hand. They learned early that the world was cold, unforgiving, and that survival was a game in itself—one you had to play smart or die trying.
The names they were given—Lincoln and Booth—are cruel jokes their father played on them. One brother named after the man who freed the slaves, the other after the man who shot him dead. Their father had a sick sense of humor, but in the world they live in, those names are no joke. They are the very legacies that haunt them.
Booth, the younger brother, is the embodiment of dreams. He is restless, driven, and full of hope, but his hope is often clouded by the hustle—the quick thrill of winning it all, the hustle that keeps him alive but never truly frees him. He’s got fire, but it burns with impatience, with the desperate need to escape the smallness of his world. Booth wants more—more than what life has given him, more than what his name suggests. And he thinks the streets will give it to him. But even as he hustles, there’s a part of him that still believes, still clings to the possibility of something better, something beyond the game.
Lincoln, the older brother, carries a different weight. He’s seen the streets, felt their bite, and survived them. But what has surviving left him? A job impersonating Abraham Lincoln in an arcade—a man who, like him, is a figure in a game, a pawn in a system that doesn’t care about you unless you fit into it. Lincoln’s life is a quiet resignation. He’s not trying to change the game; he’s just trying to stay alive. But inside, the scars run deep. His friend is in the grave because of the game, and he wonders: Does he choose the straight and narrow because he wants a better life, or because he’s afraid of falling back into the chaos that almost consumed him? His past whispers that the game is rigged, and the house always wins.
Through their constant struggle to survive, Lincoln and Booth remain tied by a responsibility they never asked for but can’t escape. They fight, they argue, they forgive—but always, they keep coming back to each other. Because in a world that abandoned them, they are all they have.
In the most charged moment of the play, the choice comes to a head. Booth, desperate to prove himself, pushes Lincoln further than ever before. Should Lincoln let Booth win, preserving his pride? Or should he step in, teaching Booth a life lesson that will mark him forever? The game of pride, of power, is laid bare. In the end, what do you choose—family or the game? The need to be right, or the need to protect?
The heart of the play is the moment where it becomes clear: “It’s the game of life, and the 2 of spades is the winner.” In that moment, the game is no longer a metaphor for cards—it’s a metaphor for survival itself. A game where the stakes are as high as your future, where every choice you make either propels you toward a new life or drags you deeper into the hole you’re trying to escape. Lincoln and Booth are caught in this game, but neither of them will leave unscathed.
Topdog/Underdog is more than just a story of two brothers—it is a mirror to the way we all grapple with our names, our identities, and our legacies. What does it mean to live up to a name when that name is both a symbol of freedom and a symbol of death? What does it mean to carry the weight of the past while trying to carve out a future? It’s a question that both brothers wrestle with throughout the play, and it’s a question we all must face at some point in our lives.
Two brothers who have nothing but each other, and yet, who threaten to destroy what little they have left. They may fight. They may hurt each other. But at the end of the day, they are each other’s keepers. They are the only family that remains, the only ones who understand the scars that have shaped them, and the only ones who can break each other’s hearts.
And in the end, when the final card is played, and the game is over, one brother is left standing. The question lingers: Can you ever truly escape the name you were given? Can you outrun the past, or are you destined to be bound to it forever?
In Topdog/Underdog, the answer is as painful as it is inevitable. It’s not just a game of cards. It’s the game of life. And in the end, you either live up to your name—or you lose yourself trying.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Topdog/Underdog
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