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| Are you telling me that you are honestly saying that there is really a more beautiful vehicular manifestation of art in the history of the whole world? Ha. Ha. |
When the Junior Jazz season was not in swing I played a lot of church
ball. Church ball is like basketball except it is more violent and
more vicious. The teams were organized by the congregation, or ward,
you were in so depending on who your neighbors were you could have a
really good or bad season. My neighbors happened to be pretty good at
basketball so it was a good season. We had two really tall guys for
church ball and a good shooting guard that were on the older team.
They needed a few more guys so my job was to bring the ball down and
give it to one of those good guys. That plan worked really well
because the two tall guys were much bigger then almost anyone else we
played and If I didn't shoot it worked out fine. We got to go to the
regional tournament which I was not allowed to play in and we lost in
the first game. We were all ready to ride home with the youth leader
who brought us and in those days there were a lot of faux-wood-sided
Oldsmobile station wagons in the big family region of Utah where we
lived and we had trouble finding the right one. As it happened our
leader's key didn't work very well in his door so he had trouble
opening the locks. I knew a thing or two about B and E and offered to
open the car for him if someone would be so kind as to lend me a
knife. Weapon in hand I proceeded to jimmy open the triangular vent
window that many cars had before the ubiquity of air conditioning. I
slipped my small arm into the vent and unlocked the door and we were
all loaded in when it was discovered that the reason why his key
didn't work too well in the door was because this was, in actual
fact, not his car at all. We all scrambled out and re-locked the
doors and found the right car a few stalls down and behind one of
those huge 15 passenger vans. The key worked quite a bit better in
the right car and we headed home for real.
