Praying (and Playing) for Forgiveness

Some of my readers, all of whom wish to remain Anonymous, have recently pointed out that they believe I’m severely lacking in the forgiveness department.

They could be right.

My kid made it to the finals in a tennis tournament yesterday. I can’t resist bragging just a bit because he’s fourteen, and he was playing in the 16-year-old division. So it’s kind of cool that he made it to the finals, right?

It was cool until his 16-year-old opponent, who’s ranked 10th in the state, made some really bad calls. He cheated my kid!

I wanted to pull a Tonya Harding on him with my kid’s racquet. But that would have ruined an expensive racquet.

What’s the kid doing still playing 16s anyway? He’s ranked tenth in the state and probably should move on up to 18s if he’s hoping for a college scholarship.

I thought about sneaking out to the parking lot and slashing his fat father’s tires. The only problem was figuring out which beige suburban with the “I Love Tennis” bumper sticker belonged to fatty.

I mean, seriously? You’re sitting there with a Bluetooth device in your ear conducting business while your son is cheating a kid nearly two years younger than he is, and you’re proud?

You’re disgusting, your kid is disgusting, and I know a juco coach in Skankbutt, South Dakota, who would be very interested in recruiting him.

I'd also be willing to bet a can of ProPenn hard court balls that the balls you're playing with have lost their bounce.

But I’ve got to forgive. Move on. Let it go. Thank your son for the valuable lesson he taught my kid yesterday.

While I’m not quite at the level of enlightenment that would allow me to do what Jesus would do, I can muster the largesse to do as the bumper sticker on my golfcart asks: “What would Jimmy Buffett do?”

I’m pretty sure Jimmy would pray for him. Or maybe slide a roofing nail under the tire of that Suburban.

Forgive me, Lord.