Friday, November 13, 2009
The neon ball floated through the air above the net and I knew there would be no way JD would--What?! He hit it. In the nanosecond it registered, I scrambled across the tennis court but it wasn't enough time. I missed the return. To lose the set after a long, hard volley was beyond frustrating, so I did what any John McEnroe lover would do: I flung my racquet onto the floor and screamed out a word of injustice to the tennis gods. I turned to my tennis partner, Jelani, but he was motionless. I turned to JD. Then to Jas. No one moved.
Something in the cosmos changed because our lively, fun little game of tennis turned into spiritual intervention, with lame phrases like, It's just a game, or Why don't we call it a night, or the ever-patronizing, Why don't we stop and pray, by my over-religious sister.
I was confused. What just happened?
To this day, they still think I screamed out an unchoice word loud enough for people in Milwaukee to have heard. But I didn't. I promise I didn't. I let out a substitute word that may have sounded like a four-letter word. But I'm holy and a bible teacher and love Jesus and would never say such things, right? Riiiiiigt.*
But does this matter? An angst-filled word meant as a substitute is still an angst-filled word. If you're like my mother, you think I'm totally wrong. If you need intervention like me, how can we change the error of our ways? On a non-related note, why do I look like I'm going to eat you in this video?
*Disclaimer: Please don't ever bring this story up. I hate it. In my defense, I haven't cursed since the age of six when my mother heard me say a four-letter word and she washed my mouth out with a bar of soap. Seriously.