This past Saturday, after tucking in my daughter and kissing her goodnight, I hurried downstairs with one thing on my mind. My wife had dropped a few hints earlier that it could very well be my lucky day, and I wasn't about to let this opportunity get away (it had been a while.)
She was lying on the couch, watching some college hoops on the tube. I sidled alongside her, and told her those college punks didn't have nothing on this old man, and after some pretty slick moves (I got a mean crossover, you know) I was able to break down her defense and achieved penetration. Nothing but slam dunks after that -- over and over and over... Rather pleased with myself, I started engaging in some serious trash talk. I'm not normally very vocal, but what can I say, I was in the zone.
In the midst of negotiating a particularly complex between-the-knees, behind-the-back tomahawk slam, I hear what sounds like my daughter calling from upstairs. Damn, what now?! I defy gravity and hanging in mid-air called up to her, asking if everything was alright. She yelled back down, "Keep it down, down there, I'm trying to sleep! "
My wife and I both busted out laughing. We decided to call it halftime, and waited a few minutes before resuming the game. Luckily she never came down, and didn't even mention anything the next day. Whew! Next time I'll remember to make sure the A/C is running and her music is on before we have another game of one-on-one.