Alexander at the Ball Game

Tonight I sat immediately in front of the most negative man I have ever been near.

The University of Arizona basketball team played Southern Mississippi, and it was a close, ragged, rugged game. The arena was nearly full--14,400 were there--and the students were, as usual, exuberant and funny. The man behind me was in top form: nothing happened that did not offend him. "Ah, c'mon! You are seven feet tall and still you can't walk on water!"

He didn't actually say that. I wish he had. He kept his eyes focused on the scoreboard that showed fouls, turnovers, and bad breath. He was ready for every mistake and every ordinary bit of evidence that seven footers cannot walk on water.

I, on the other hand, was a model of ideal deportment. I did not tell him what I was thinking. He was bigger than I. I suspected he had a bad temper and a permit to carry. I am no fool. I did not dare even to turn around and look at him.

I recall once playing golf with a friend who was having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Let us call him Alexander. He was reduced to using only one club--his driver--for every stroke; even putting. He was in a rage. "Alexander," I said to him, "what do you do for fun?"

I assume that Alexander has taken up going to basketball games, but I am not sure. I did not dare to turn around.

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