Rejection? What Do I Know About Rejection? I’m the MAN!
Written: Dec 11 '01 (Updated Dec 11 '01)
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Product Rating:
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Pros: It teaches you how to persevere.
Cons: It sucks.
The Bottom Line: I do not like rejection, man. I do not like it, I-am-the-MAN. I do not like it here or there. I do not like it anywhere.
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| madtheory's Full Review: Rejected |
re·ject (ri-‘jekt)
tr.v. re·ject·ed, re·ject·ing, re·jects
1. To refuse to accept, submit to, believe, or make use of.
2. To refuse to consider or grant; deny.
3. To refuse to recognize or give affection to (a person).
4. To discard as defective or useless; throw away.
5. To spit out or vomit
Don’t laugh. Yes, I had to actually look it up the word “rejection” to see what it meant. Why? Because, I’ve never felt rejection. I’ve never been rejected. Never ever. Not in the slightest. You see,
I’m the MAN.
That’s right. I’ve never been rejected in anything, by anyone. But of course, you knew that already didn’t you? I mean, you could have decided not to click on this article, but deep down subconsciously you knew you just had to. There was something about this editorial, be it the title of this review or my Epinions I.D., which you just couldn’t resist. Thank you for accepting me.
But honestly though, I’m glad I’ve never been rejected. “To refuse to recognize or give affection to?” It sure sounds painful. Imagine someone telling you “no, you can’t play with me,” or “no, we can’t hire you,” or “no you can’t spend a passionate night with me and my three model friends.” That’s rough. That rejection thing must really suck. You guys definitely should do something about that. There should be a law or something.
Well, since I know absolutely nothing about rejection, you may be thinking that I’m not the best person to look to for advice on rejection. Well, that’s where you’re wrong buddy! I don’t know if you knew this, but a “rejection” is also basketball slang for blocking someone’s shot. I know this from personal experience. Oh, no, I’ve never actually been “rejected” myself, but I’ve handed out more than my share of blocks in my time. You see, on the basketball court…
I’m the MAN.
For example, a few months ago I was playing some pick up basketball 4-on-4 with some of the guys at the local recreation center. As usual, I’m dominating all aspects of the game. My jumper was virtually semi-automatic, cracking the net with the pinpoint precision of a sniper. On defense, I was handcuffing the opponents quicker than an ATF raid on a militia compound. And your grandma’s knitting bee would have been jealous of the way my passes were threading all kinds of needles. Women were cheering, the players up next were trying to emulate my moves, kids were trying to get me to autograph their basketballs in between plays; it was all love. Just another Saturday afternoon for me at the rec.
But then there’s this one little hairy guy on the team we’re playing against. For some reason, he just can’t seem to understand the basketball aristocracy that’s on display on this parquet battleground. So, on one play, I’m standing under the basket defending a post player, and this furry troll is running at our goal with a full head of steam. He’s dribbling the rock in and out of defenders like Allen Iverson after a double mochachino latté topped with little sprinkles of speed. The whole time, I’m thinking, “yeah, you can shake and bake all you want to, but I know where you’re going, and I’m going to meet you there with a little surprise.”
After all his snaking and weaving, he finally gets into the paint and tries of all things, a lay-up! Against ME! I almost couldn’t jump I was laughing so hard! Didn’t some one tell him that Mike wants to be like ME? Jordan even sang it to me once, “I wanna be, I wanna be like Theory…” Someone must have forgotten to give that guy his scouting report.
Anyway, I stepped away from my man, then waited a half-second after he jumped to ensure that I was going to get a clean swipe at the ball. As soon as the pill left his sweaty little fingers, I brought my right arm around and swatted it hard. The “oohs” and “aahs” of the crowd filled the air as the synthetic leather sphere soared high over the skyward-gazing heads of the spectators and players. The basketball eventually landed somewhere in the ninth row of the brown-stained retractable metal stands with a pronounced “clang.”
As one of the players scrambled high into the stands to retrieve the stranded ball, the guy wiped his brow on his crimson Nike tank top, then stared over his shoulder at me, upset that I had smacked hit shot into West Egypt. I just nodded at him and winked my eye.
A few plays later, he’s back bringing the ball down court. The glassy, hundred-yard stare in his eyes let me know that he was intent on scoring against me. C’mon guy, don’t you remember how I “Hakeem-ed” your mess into the stratosphere last time?
Presently, the player I’m defending decides to set a pick for him at elbow of the free throw line. Red shirt rubs off his defender and rolls, so I roll too, trailing just a few steps behind him. I’m following the play, so I jump early to compensate for the delay. Thinking he’s free and clear for his lay-up, Red slows down to release the ball. At the last minute he sees a glimmer in the corner of his eye, and with a shudder, realizes I’m already there soaring above him, my jump timed perfectly to put me just above the ball. So this time, to make a point, I smacked the ball downward, directly at his face. The blow made him lose his orientation in mid-air, and he came down right on his tailbone with a thunderous “smack!” Red’s momentum and the reduced frictional coefficient from the layer of sweat between him and the floor caused him to slide chaotically into the padded blue wall behind the goal.
After several seconds, he struggled to get up, rubbing his hindquarters. The force of the basketball impact left a clean, rosy imprint of the Nike Swoosh™ logo across his forehead. He was visibly angry, perhaps even a little scared, with the ease that I continued to pimp-slap his weak attempts at shots. Those icy daggers his eyes shot at me let me know that he was finally starting to realize that…
I’m the MAN.
Don’t hate. Start a fan club.
Anyway, a few plays later, this human fireplug is leading yet another fast break! You could tell he wasn’t even thinking of passing or anything either, just coming at me at a very high clip, his face showing the dogged determination that he was going to score on me somehow, someway. He must have some kind of sick fetish for humiliation to pull this “eye of the tiger” crap in my house. I completely ignored my man and settled on the balls of my feet in the low post.
Eventually he made his move in the paint. Troll-boy aggressively hurls himself skyward and I launch myself into the air after him, ready to put a new artificial satellite into orbit. But wait! This time before he releases, he brings the ball down, switches to the right hand and lays it in on the other side! He scored!
The gym just erupted with applause. I mean people were actually cheering for this loser. MY people. In MY house! What the hell? I guess people really do love an underdog. Hairy little mutty underdogs at that.
After the game was over, I asked furball why he kept coming after me even though he knew I was going to sling his weak mess into the upper deck. He just replied,
“I knew you couldn’t block them all. I wasn’t going to give up until I scored. You kept shooting me down, so I just brushed myself off and kept coming at you.”
I nodded my head and said, “Like a Timex watch, right?”
He smiled, “Yeah, I take a licking and keep on ticking! Persistence is the key. You must persevere. You know, Sun Tzu wrote...”
“Whatever, man,” I interrupted, “I wasn’t asking for some deep philosophical discussion. Just hurry up and hustle your little loser squad off the court. We’re about to run the next game.”
You see, just because he scored, didn’t mean his squad won the game. I took those two points as a personal affront and just went ballistic on the other team. They still talk about my epic scoring that afternoon, calling it “The Day Fiery Orange Death Rained from the Sky.”
You didn’t think he had actually won the game with that shot, did you? I mean, come on! They were playing against ME for goodness sakes! Oh, didn’t anyone tell you?
I’m the MAN.
Recommended:
No
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madtheory
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Location: Dallas,TX
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DON'T CALL IT A COMEB... wait. I guess you actually can call it a comeback.
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