Beneath the warmth of Mallorca’s summer orb, it would be easy to languish in idle-otry. Yet I diligently persist in improvements to my skill settings!
Por ejemplo, I was recently involved in a “pick-me-up” basketball match. The opposing squads were comprised of German tourists, local fishermen, some street urchins, and even our local priest, Father Delarojas.
As we arranged ourselves for the bounding in of the ball, a pickpocket from the other team asked, “¡Dios mio! You have a priest in your midst?”
Words of augury! We lost the match 21-19, and the final point scored when the good Father tangled the ball in his vestments, leading to an unholy turnover.
Though it was a friendly game (I took part in my flip-floppers, after all), it still hurt like an Andrew Bynum elbow to the fuselage.
“This is a tragedy!” I cried, thrusting my fists heavenwards, then casting an accusatory glare at the holy man.
“Father Delarojas did his best, Rudy,” demurred one of my opponents.
“And yet we lost,” I lamented. Is it my fate to lose ALL matches, from pavilion’s playoffs to the playground’s pettiness?
But such self-pity is only cause for shame! Thus, I chastised myself and swore (gently!) to do what it takes to become worthy of joining a basketball champion.
And now, I find that I am a member of the Dallas Mavericks.
That was easy!
