It was as close to walking into the living room and seeing
the famous comedian Jack Benny as could be. How C.W. found out about that icon
of comedy remains a mystery, but there he was.
He turned with that famous deadpan look, “Just what is
this?” He turned toward the television screen.
“It’s called basketball.”
“And, the purpose? Oh wait … .” On the screen a player
stopped dribbling and held the basketball squeezed above his middle, moving it
back and forth. “It must be an exercise to strengthen stomach muscles.”
“No, when the player quits bouncing the ball, or dribbling
as they call it, he must throw it to someone else.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t your species worship
private property possession above all?”
“It isn’t exactly his property.”
“Whose then?”
“Oh, maybe the school’s. This is a college game.”
“Oh, so it is an academic exercise to teach decision making
skills?”
“Maybe. Sort of.”
“What do you call these students?”
“Players.”
“They come to college to study game theory?”
“They actually come to college to win these games for the
school.”
“Why?”
“Uh, prestige, honor, fame, the sort of things that
encourage rich men to make donations to the school.”
He turned and did the deadpan again. “You’re telling me that
rich men turn loose of their money for things like this? That’s going to come
as a surprise to all those hopeful models in New York City.”
“You heard me.”
“And how many years of college study does it take for these
young players, as you call them, to learn the necessary gaming skills to
enhance their life choices?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“How good they are.”
“So, the better they get, the longer they stay?”
“Not exactly. The best ones stay less than two full
semesters.”
“They learn pretty fast?”
“Something like that.”
“How long do the others stay?”
“Some as long as a little less than eight full semesters.”
The deadpan again. “And I thought it took Hope and Crosby a
long time to learn the business.”
After watching for another three hours, he turned asked, “How long
is this going to last?”
“There’s only five minutes left.”
“Good, I haven’t been so bored since the first time I heard
a Milton Berle routine," he said before turning back to the screen.
An hour later, he began to fidget. “Is this nearly over?”
“Only three minutes left.”
A player threw the ball in and, immediately, another player
slapped him. They exchanged words, and a referee stepped between them. This
elicited a response. “I see now,” he said. “They’re learning the skills
involved in conflict resolution.”
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| Picking a family at random, even this typical family is bored,. - C.W. |
“Something like that.”
An hour later, his patience was exhausted. “Will this go on
forever?”
“Just one more minute left.”
As another player, after having been slapped, walked to
attempt a free-throw, he turned once again with the most solemn look you can
imagine.
“This is worse than watching Fred Allen trying to solve a
math problem,” he said. “Good thing nobody else was forced to live through it.”
“Yeah, right.”
“At least the female of your species has better things to
do.”
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