Last weekend I was at a neighbor’s Independence Day party. Beer was being drunk, children were running around with sparklers, mulleted rednecks were playing terrible terrible terrible basketball on a hoop placed in the packed dirt and grass of this guy’s yard. I was sitting about twenty yards from the hoop, talking to an older gentleman about his days as a machinist. The ball rolled toward me, so I scooped it up, continuing my conversation, beer in hand, and chucked the ball at the rim with that sweet little rotation you know is a part of my shot.
Nothing but net. I sat back down with supreme nonchalance as the crowd erupted.
I won’t pretend I didn’t love it.
A few days later I was at a construction site with a basketball-loving co-worker. There was another basket on the grass of this house’s yard, and a ball lying about ten yards from the hoop. I picked up the ball, related the above story to this friend of mine, and as I described taking the first shot, I chucked the ball I was holding at the basket. I had to keep the shot low to get through the branches, but there was never any doubt. It rattled in.
I was sure to remind my friend a few more times that day that I’d made a shot while talking about making a shot. That, to coin a phrase, is so meta.
So as we headed out of the house this morning I picked up one of our basketballs and called out to my wife. I told Kimberly the story of the first shot, and of the crowd’s glorious reaction. I told her how I’d cold-bloodedly hit a shot while talking trash to my friend. And as I told her that I’d “made a shot while I was talking about making a shot”, I launched the ball at the rim without a shadow of a doubt that it was going straight in.
It slammed into the front of the rim.
Why am I never able to impress my woman?