As I was coming up the sidewalk on my way to pump some iron during my lunch break today, some guy was coming out, and he had a young girl, probably eight or ten or so, with him. He was all sweaty, his face was bright red, and he had a basketball under his arm. I assumed he was leaving the high octane open pickup basketball that occurs every Mon/Weds/Fri. Hell, I’ve even played a few times; a couple years ago I made a point to regularly.
Anyway, as we sort of crossed paths, I could hear what he was saying to the little girl (his daughter, I presume; he looked to be about my age).
“He doesn’t want to play basketball. He wants to fight. He wants to get his ass beat. At the YMCA. By me.”
Ah, testosterone and frustrated jocks. Two things that go together like fire and gasoline. What a dork.
Of course, I can’t really talk. There was a guy who played a lot when I played regularly. An older guy, a lawyer, I learned. He was a loudmouth and a dick, and I didn’t like him. Julia and I would see him around town sometimes, and I’d always point him out in a whisper and a jabbing finger in his direction.
“See, there he is!” I’d say.
“Who?” Julia would say.
“That guy,” I’d say. Blank stare. Maybe even a shrug. “You know, my nemesis from the Y!”
“Oh, that guy.”
If she rolled her eyes, she was smart enough not to let me see it.