1 is the loneliest number

First, a symbolic recap of game 1 of the NBA Finals:



In related news, I was shooting around today -- as I'm wont to on a sunny Friday afternoon -- when 2 high school kids at the other end of the court approached me, and one asked if I would play them 2-on-1. Me being a dumbass who, not unlike a canine, doesn't consider the consequences of a situation until

(I'm in the back seat, headed towards the animal shelter)

it's too late, I agreed.

Then -- because I'm slower than Sunday church service to a 5-year-old -- when I realized they wanted to handicap me, I asked "Hold up, you want me to play you both?"

"Don't worry, we're beginners," one said.

I should have refused the offer then, but my foolish pride allowed me, for a moment, to believe that maybe I had a shot, maybe I could embarrass these brash young punks.

As it turned out, I nearly did. I was up 5-4, thanks in large part to my outside jumper, when my tormentors took the upper hand and had me playing Monkey in the Middle.

And if it weren't for the fact that both kids, wanting to win at all cost, did everything save beat me over the head with a lead pipe to stop me driving to the rim (seriously, the next time I play pick-up and some asshole wraps his arm around my waist or sticks out his leg to trip me as I'm driving towards the basket, I'm going to start throwing haymakers indiscriminately) I possibly could have beaten the odds.

But I didn't.

I badly want this week to end.