Before honour is humility. (Proverbs 18:12, KJV)
Women are the biggest trash talkers. Forget about Babe Ruth and “the called shot”; Muhammad Ali against Ernie Terrell saying, “What’s my name?”; and Larry Bird on any night in the NBA. Please.
Guys, do not tell a woman “I love you” and mean it because she knows. That woman can say and do stuff to you another man would be afraid to think, much less do. All the married and divorced men lowered or shook their heads after reading or hearing that last sentence—not line, sentence. Why?
A woman will put you out of your house. Her name is not on the mortgage because she was visiting her sick sister when it was time to go the bank. And you thought you had the equivalent of a prenuptial agreement. She was going to be a stay at home mom or a housewife. She did not pay a penny on the note, shovel any snow, or clean nary a gutter. But she is staying at home, and you are on the street while paying her to live in the style to which she had become accustomed. And all of that brings me to the subject at hand.
Shhh. Few people know about a famous incident at the old Boston Garden. Danny Ainge swore everyone to secrecy. If you are standing up, you should sit down. If you are having a shot, put it down and pick up the bottle. You may find this hard to believe. For the legendary engagement between Zorro and Sgt. Garcia pales in comparison. Larry Bird learned how to trash talk from a nun.
“What!” Yeah, I know what you are thinking. “He has got to be kidding me.”
Bird had stretched and run his laps. He was on the court with a ball boy. He was done with free throws and baseline and post-up drills. Now he was on the perimeter.
“Hey, Hick, I hear you can play.”
Two heads swiveled, and there she stood.
“How about some one-on-one?”
“Mother Teresa?”
“Yes, that is my name. But I asked you a question.”
“Ma’am, I love you. But are you serious?”
“Cross my heart and hope to avoid purgatory.”
“Uh, uh…OK.”
“This may get embarrassing. So, ball boy, why not fold some towels in the locker room?”
Bird nodded, and he left.
“Ma’am, I see your bag over there. Do you want to change?”
“Not for you.”
“Well, do you want to warm up?”
“Not for you.”
“OK. What are we playing to?”
“Twelve, the number of judgment.”
“Yes, ma’am. Here you go.”
“Big mistake, young man. You will not get the ball again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mother Teresa took the ball in from the left side by the basket and backed Bird down in the post. She faked inside and, with her left hand, bounced the ball off Bird’s butt. She ran to the corner. He ran to the ball. But just as he got there, the spin took it to her behind the three point line.
Swish.
Mother Teresa did the same thing from the right side—twice. Then she hit from ten feet beyond the top of the key.
Swish.
“Hey, Hick. What is 3x4?”
“Twelve.”
“Game!”
He shook her hand.
“You know what they call me at the convent when I am on the court?”
“No, ma’am.”
“MT.”
“M…T?”
“Yes, because I drain buckets.”
(c)2024 Marvin D. Jones. All rights reserved.
[Larry Bird Stories]
