This post was inspired by a Twitter conversation. About…gender dynamics.
But this post isn’t a conversation about gender dynamics. Even as a self-described feminist, I’d sooner stick a rusty hanger up my vagina than engage in a gender debate in 2018. Your performative wokeness isn’t welcome here. Save it for your social feeds.
What I want to talk about today, ladies and gents, is gambles and guarantees.
Here’s a story*:
At an open mic night on the South Side of Chicago, a charismatic poet is taken with an attractive photographer at the bar. He is so distracted, in fact, he clumsily knocks over her wine glass, thus spilling her white wine all over the bar. He buys her another drink and dedicates his performance–a poem rife with intense sexual innuendo–to her. He tries for her number at the end of the night, she turns him down.
A week or so later, he runs into the pretty photographer at a record store. He again asks her out, she again rebuffs. He is temporarily disheartened until…AHA! He realizes she wrote a check for her purchases and the poet’s homegirl is the cashier. The photographer’s home address is right there for the taking. After some intense badgering to his friend who tries her best to logically explain why popping up at the photographer’s house is a horrible idea, the poet gets the address. He shows up unannounced to the photographer’s home to with a gift; the CD she couldn’t find during her trip to the record store.
Some of you know how this story ends. For those who don’t, the ending isn’t the point
The point is, our poet took a risk.
Invading the privacy of a woman you don’t know, who has turned you down twice, is creepy as fuck. Period. Full stop. In sports, they call this a long shot. It’s the Hail Mary from your own 10-yard line with a minute left on the clock. It’s the 50-ft. jumper you heave into the air with 00:01 in the quarter and two defenders waving hands in your face. Unless you’re T*m Br*dy or Steph Curry, these are ill-advised shots. You are likely to throw into double coverage. Or brick.
Or be called a fucking creep.
You take these shots because shooters shoot. True enough. You know what shooters don’t do?
Cry that the end zone or hoop should be grateful for the attempt.
Shooters are gamblers. And a gamble is not a guarantee.
Have you ever seen JR Smith scream “FUCK YOU THEN, BITCH” at a hoop when a contested jumper bounces off the rim? No. He shrugs and lives to shoot another day. Because JR Smith knows if you’re gonna have the balls to put up that shot, you’ve gotta accept that you just might miss. In embarrassing fashion.
Shooters shoot. Shooters don’t cry.
[*] This story is also known as the plot to the motion picture, Love Jones.