5

Automated Gary Carter Tells Me My Swing Is Fucked

With a prolonged slump limiting my usefulness to pinch bunting, numerous coaches attempted to help me return to my glory days (age 9) by explaining that there was a loop in my swing. The flaw was driven home when I went to a batting cage that had New York Mets' catcher Gary Carter giving prerecorded hitting pointers on a life-sized monitor. The arcade game immediately identified the loop in my swing, and offered a hearty, "You've got to straighten that out if you want to make it to the bigs!"


An enraged Carter throws off his gear after seeing a young fan drop a pop foul.

Keep in mind that robo-Gary was a piece of early 90s technology. There was no way that he was equipped to diagnose minor flaws in a swing. It was a little like being diagnosed with Parkinson's by a Power Glove.

My Father's Shame:

"That Gary Carter game was giving you the advice we were all giving you... I suppose it probably stung a bit more coming from an arcade gimmick."

4

Turns Out, I Actually Have Negative Tennis Ability

In a stroke of good fortune, one of the best players in my tennis camp needed a new doubles partner, because his regular one contracted a bacterial infection. I filled in and we proceeded to win the camp tournament, earning an invite to the county championships. With each match in the counties, my partner entrusted me with less and less court coverage. By the finals, my assignment was to stand on the baseline and call out, "Let it go," if I believed the opposing shot was long.


"Well maybe you can start taking shots when you have a rad haircut too."

Due to my worsening eyesight, I couldn't accurately judge whether a ball would be in or out. I guess that, and the rules stating that I had to serve every once in a while, pretty much ensured our defeat.

My Father's Shame:

"Fortunately, doubles is to tennis what synchro is to swimming, so there weren't a lot of spectators."

3

Exiting the Gridiron Concussed Via Ambulance

2

Schooled By a One-Handed Baller

The summer before high school I went with a friend to visit his relatives in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. At the basketball courts under the Verrazano Bridge, we found a rigid hierarchy that had new players designated to the scrub courts. To move up to the higher quality games, you needed to be picked. My friend and I were never picked. However, we did compete against a youngster who was missing the bottom half of his left arm. He was selected to move up fairly regularly.

I don't think it's disrespectful to the disabled to reason that if you have two hands and you're not better than a kid with one hand, then you're probably not NBA material.


We actually didn't touch this. The NBA logo is either sporting a nub or it's mocking Anthony.

My Father's Shame:

"I think that's a wonderful story. The sense of pride that one-handed kid's dad must get watching him play--I can't even begin to imagine."

1

I Shame My Father In Front of His Childhood Hero, Johnny Unitas

Sporting-wise, I decided to spend most of high school playing Ultimate Frisbee and trying to beat my record for consecutive bong hits. For one season though, I was the starting cornerback on the JV football team. In a preseason scrimmage, we played a private school quarterbacked by the son of Johnny Unitas. In fact, the Hall of Famer was in attendance when his son threw a gift interception my way in the third quarter. I rejected the gift, letting the pigskin bounce off my face mask and fall harmlessly to the ground.


"If Unitas doesn't see me crying, maybe he'll think it's someone else's son."

I felt for my dad, but to this day, I still wonder what was going through Johnny Unitas's head as he watched me clumsily grasp for the ball as it bounced off my melon. On the one hand, he was probably relieved that his son hadn't been intercepted, but part of him had to have been a little ashamed that his own flesh and blood was playing in a JV game with such an incompetent athlete. While I'll never know for sure, I like to think that for that one shining moment, I was bad enough to make every father in the stands feel a little ashamed of their own son.

My Father's Shame:

[Sighs] Can I just say you've got a nice personality? Are you sure you want all this on the Internet?"

Check out Anthony's first column, in which he offers some Suggested Improvements for the Guy Who Mugged Me Last Week.