Punched in the Face
My best friend Dwight and I have many things in common. We both like sports, particularly football and basketball (although I prefer baseball over the two, but can never convince him that baseball is, in fact, exciting), video games, rap (although I prefer Green Day over 50-Cent any day, but can never convince him that just because he’s black doesn’t mean he is sentenced to a life of listening to eternal bass thumping), and expensive shoes. Even though we know each other about as well as any two human beings are capable of, there are some situations in which we genuinely disagree, and occasionally these disagreements can lead to some serious drama.
One day, in the not so distant past we were playing basketball, one of our favorite things to do together. We were playing a pretty heated game of one-on-one, and doing a lot of arguing throughout. I was winning 6-3, when I dribbled hard to the left and quickly changed direction with a spin, and drove to the basket. Right before going up for a tough lay-up, Dwight chest bumped me off course causing me to have to throw up an off-balance shot that went awkwardly off the back rim. I complained that he was fouling, but to no avail. He claimed to just be playing hard defense. The next few possessions of mine ended in similar fashion, with Dwight fouling me on every drive to the basket. Forget this, I thought on my next possession. Instead of attempting a drive to the basket, I took a few dribbles, creating some space for myself, and drained an easy jump shot. This would be my strategy for the remainder of the game. I ended the game by getting a long defensive rebound, and hitting a beautifully arcing three-pointer before Dwight could come defend me. Dwight reluctantly said “good game,” and checked the ball up for the next game. I won the second game in similar fashion, and after swishing the final jump shot, Dwight argued that I had won in a cheap fashion because all I did was fire off jump shots. I retorted by claiming that if he had played fair defense, I would have done more than shoot uncontested from the outside.
On our way driving home, I stopped at someone’s house a few blocks from Dwight’s house to return the basketball which we borrowed from him. Dwight got out of the car with the ball, bounded up the porch stairs, and knocked on the door. He was invited inside, and I figured that while he kept me waiting, I might as well reverse my car back down the street, and turn it into the intersecting street which faces the direction of Dwight’s house. After navigating my car to the side street which was about forty yards from the house, I looked back to see Dwight waiting outside the house looking dumbly at my car. I yelled for him to come on, and he hollered back “what the hell are you doing, come pick me up.” “Pick you up,” I thought, you are less than fifty yards away, I didn’t masterfully maneuver my car here for nothing. “Stop being lazy and get over here, I don’t have all day,” I demanded. Without a hint of resignation he replied, “come back here and pick me up, I ain’t playin’ around.” I couldn’t believe my ears. The same kid who I was relentlessly running around the basketball court with a half an hour ago was suddenly a lethargic imbecile, unwilling to walk half a block to my car. “Alright, I’m gonna leave if you don’t get here in ten seconds,” I playfully threatened, “ten, nine, eight, seven, six…” Sure enough, he stood his ground, and I sped off leaving him to walk the three or four blocks home.
Later that night, while watching TV and not feeling the slightest bit guilty about the minor inconvenience I caused my best friend, there was a loud knock at the door, and Dwight came storming into the room. I could tell he was livid. “Why’d you leave me,” he seethed. “Cause you were screwin’ around,” I said. “So, you still shouldn’t have left me,” he snapped back. I could see this was going nowhere. After a heated debate, with many exchanges of bad words and smart remarks, I said something really witty about his idiocy. In one quick, seemingly surreal moment, Dwight threw a right hook square into my cheek. I shuddered for a moment, regained my composure, and reassured myself that my best friend had just punched me in the face. I looked at him for a brief moment, contemplating what to say. “What the @#!* was that for?” was all I could think of. “Cause you left me,” he blandly remarked. We exchanged a few more four-letter words, and I eventually got him to leave, and he made his best effort to rampage out of the house and slam the door. As I rubbed my swelling cheek and eye, I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that my best friend punched me in the face because I caused him to have to walk three or four blocks.
One day, in the not so distant past we were playing basketball, one of our favorite things to do together. We were playing a pretty heated game of one-on-one, and doing a lot of arguing throughout. I was winning 6-3, when I dribbled hard to the left and quickly changed direction with a spin, and drove to the basket. Right before going up for a tough lay-up, Dwight chest bumped me off course causing me to have to throw up an off-balance shot that went awkwardly off the back rim. I complained that he was fouling, but to no avail. He claimed to just be playing hard defense. The next few possessions of mine ended in similar fashion, with Dwight fouling me on every drive to the basket. Forget this, I thought on my next possession. Instead of attempting a drive to the basket, I took a few dribbles, creating some space for myself, and drained an easy jump shot. This would be my strategy for the remainder of the game. I ended the game by getting a long defensive rebound, and hitting a beautifully arcing three-pointer before Dwight could come defend me. Dwight reluctantly said “good game,” and checked the ball up for the next game. I won the second game in similar fashion, and after swishing the final jump shot, Dwight argued that I had won in a cheap fashion because all I did was fire off jump shots. I retorted by claiming that if he had played fair defense, I would have done more than shoot uncontested from the outside.
On our way driving home, I stopped at someone’s house a few blocks from Dwight’s house to return the basketball which we borrowed from him. Dwight got out of the car with the ball, bounded up the porch stairs, and knocked on the door. He was invited inside, and I figured that while he kept me waiting, I might as well reverse my car back down the street, and turn it into the intersecting street which faces the direction of Dwight’s house. After navigating my car to the side street which was about forty yards from the house, I looked back to see Dwight waiting outside the house looking dumbly at my car. I yelled for him to come on, and he hollered back “what the hell are you doing, come pick me up.” “Pick you up,” I thought, you are less than fifty yards away, I didn’t masterfully maneuver my car here for nothing. “Stop being lazy and get over here, I don’t have all day,” I demanded. Without a hint of resignation he replied, “come back here and pick me up, I ain’t playin’ around.” I couldn’t believe my ears. The same kid who I was relentlessly running around the basketball court with a half an hour ago was suddenly a lethargic imbecile, unwilling to walk half a block to my car. “Alright, I’m gonna leave if you don’t get here in ten seconds,” I playfully threatened, “ten, nine, eight, seven, six…” Sure enough, he stood his ground, and I sped off leaving him to walk the three or four blocks home.
Later that night, while watching TV and not feeling the slightest bit guilty about the minor inconvenience I caused my best friend, there was a loud knock at the door, and Dwight came storming into the room. I could tell he was livid. “Why’d you leave me,” he seethed. “Cause you were screwin’ around,” I said. “So, you still shouldn’t have left me,” he snapped back. I could see this was going nowhere. After a heated debate, with many exchanges of bad words and smart remarks, I said something really witty about his idiocy. In one quick, seemingly surreal moment, Dwight threw a right hook square into my cheek. I shuddered for a moment, regained my composure, and reassured myself that my best friend had just punched me in the face. I looked at him for a brief moment, contemplating what to say. “What the @#!* was that for?” was all I could think of. “Cause you left me,” he blandly remarked. We exchanged a few more four-letter words, and I eventually got him to leave, and he made his best effort to rampage out of the house and slam the door. As I rubbed my swelling cheek and eye, I couldn’t help but laugh at the fact that my best friend punched me in the face because I caused him to have to walk three or four blocks.
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