It was Football Weekend, and Bubba and I were stoked on caffeine at 3am. And so we left our Pittsburgh Motel 6 room and retrieved a football from the trunk of the rental car. We ran patterns between the parked cars, and I basked in the joys of throwing to someone 6'4". It's like shooting baskets into a swimming pool. And then, invariably, I said "Go long."
Bubba jogged off hesitantly, ever more slowly, knowing I have a lousy arm. Insulted, I let him jog for quite a while. When he finally reached the outer limits of my range, I launched a beautiful rainbow pass, aiming to arc it over the rail of the motel's second-story corner and drop it gracefully in front of Bubba. I missed by about 15 feet. Not Bubba. Him, I missed by about 30 feet. No, I missed air by 15 feet. My beautiful rainbow pass shattered someone's motel window.
Long-dormant childhood instincts immediately took over: we scattered. It was every man for himself. What is that instinct, anyway? And why don't I, an otherwise responsible adult, even feel bad about fleeing?