My Turn: In the game of life, nothing seems to be a slam dunk
My husband likes to yell at the television. Not that he expects it to answer or that he’s looking for an argument; it’s just a quirk of his that I expect afflicts many husbands. Mine corrects grammatical errors, adds a verbal disclaimer to pharmaceutical ads and says “You’re welcome!” when the nightly news anchor thanks him for tuning in.
But mostly, he yells at the TV during sporting events. From the fervor with which he yells, you’d think he’s either the coach or he bet the house on the game’s outcome.
One time, we were watching the Golden State Warriors in the NBA Finals against the Cleveland Cavaliers. It wasn’t a particularly close game, but every time the Warriors missed a rebound, an easy lay-up or a foul shot, my husband would scream at the TV: “Box ’em out!”, “Stop showboating!” or “How can you MISS that?!”
I, of course, am thinking, “Oh, maybe it’s the pressure of being on national TV or playing on your opponents’ court or the jeering crowd.” Why would those bother anyone?
Invariably, I will pause whatever I’m doing, look at him and remind him that they can’t hear him. Then the conversation starts:
“All they have to do is make the shot. This is what they do for a LIVING! They practice this day in and day out. If I missed this many opportunities in MY job, I’d be bumped back to the minor leagues!
This from a man who has had decades of marriage in which to perfect getting a dirty dish from the kitchen counter into the dishwasher right below, decades in which to nail a bank shot with his boxer shorts into the laundry hamper, decades in which to master the art of getting the discarded newspapers from the floor to the recycle bin. And yet, I can track him like seagulls stalking a garbage barge — just follow the trail of dishes, socks and underwear.
I’m sure his first coach, my mother-in-law, started his training early. As the ninth child of 10, I’m quite confident that he was drilled on the basics of dressing, feeding and keeping himself clean because, Lord knows, his mom and siblings were probably too busy. But when he left his “home team,” he became a free agent and then spent some time in the bachelor league before he was picked up by his new team — me.
Which is not to imply that my husband is a slob, although if the uniform fits … But he does have the tendency to let the shot clock run out and then I have to take control of the errant socks, er, ball.
Sometimes, no matter how much you practice, it just doesn’t come together, which is why I think we need a “closer” around our house. In baseball, a “closer” is a pitcher who specializes in getting the final outs in a close game when his team is winning. It’s his job to preserve the win by dispatching the final batters in the last inning.
In the game of life, the Franklin team has won more than we’ve lost, for which I’m extremely grateful. But it’s clear that, even with superior coaching and quarterbacking skills, my husband and two young adult children still can’t seem to manage to close on either dirty dishes or the clothes in the hamper. So, maybe I’ll find a strapping young Adonis who can take the alley-oop from my husband or kids and slam dunk the dishes in the dishwasher.
Or maybe they just need a little more positive reinforcement. I wonder if the UCLA cheerleading squad is available?
