Member-only story
Even the coolest of us can be moved to madness — it all depends upon the trigger. Mine?
Three-thirty in the morning, a thin back alley, downtown. Comeback sauce performing a fat man’s cannonball, never forgetting that sneakers come in pairs.
And that girls don’t respect the Comeback sauce — or the all-white, hard to find instant classic sneakers. They let it run from their hot sausage or cheeseburger, totally uninterrupted by last second attempts to rescue one more taste for the tongue’s tip — unimpeded in its fall. Unless, of course, the Comeback sauce beckons for some fancy French action, which goes well until you realize that she’s a spitter.
And $300 LeBron 1’s catch all the sauce with the same kind of uncanny instinct as a pinpoint, no-look pass thru the five hole of a defender, as only the King could.
And then she burps.
And drops the rest of the goodness, letting the Comeback live in the after, with all of the vengeance of every petty woman that ever wondered why sneakers cost so much, and why he never bought her a handbag with that money instead — even though she doesn’t give a damn about handbags, either.
Do you know the stress, rummaging your pockets, now forgetting your password that your girlfriend is always trying…
