Yesterday, I left you with the burning question -- will she or won't she?
She did.
My little wanna be dunker enlisted the help of my daughter-in-law (this is a fluke I am NOT old enough to have a married son).
She took over the booth while my assailant led the way to the gallows. Actually, the dunking "machine" kind of looked gallowish -- fairly primitive arm that dropped (gulp) a hinged (oh my!) shelf.
The bucket tipped while the victim stayed -- but there was a rope involved.
And the sounds. Wow. The clang as the baseball hit dead center, followed by the clank of the door opening, the splash of the refreshing water cascading over the victim's head, the inevitable scream.
I'll have you know that I did my gender proud. No squealing like a prissy girly-girl. No whimpering, sidling or whining. When it was my turn, my little "friend" motioned me to the seat. Regally, I think, I crossed to the wet chair, sat, folded my hands in my lap, crossed my legs at the ankle and closed my eyes, awaiting my destiny.
Of course I knew the kid was a dead arm. Wham. Clang. Clunk. Splash. No scream. (It felt really good - 90+ degrees, standing in the sun for hours, yeah, it felt real good.) But I didn't tell him that.
I returned to my booth with dignity. My opponent in the game of wits begun forty-five minutes earlier returned to say good-bye. Clutched in his fist was the bag holding his booty purchased with my easy tickets. With a wicked grin he said. "That was the best part of the day."
I can't say I've often heard I'm the best part of someone's day.
An hour later another young man returned to repeatedly to fulfill his junk needs. "Can I go again?"
"I gotta make you work for your tickets. It's too easy for you."
He sighed and shot the ball backward over his shoulder as instructed, giving me the eye the whole time. I handed him his latest hard won tickets.
"Hey. I want to dunk you!"
Yep! I've always had a way with men.
