I rolled back over, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. As my eyes slowly opened like massive castle doors, my brain tried to convince itself that it was just a dream. Slowly, like your grandmother pealing open a sardine can, I removed the blanketed coverings from my quivering body. As my legs swung out to the left and shortly met the carpet, I trembled as I teetered on the edge of my full-sized bed. There my eyes remained forward as I feared to turn back around and look into the eyes of such unwarranted regret. Fear gripped me like the mighty Kong to his white-clad lady, as my shortened breaths craved for reassurance of false alarms. With the precision of a sniper my head rotated to the south, as an unbridled explosion pulsed until my head reached its 156-degree destination. There lying next to me my deepest suspicions were frightfully reaffirmed as I gasped and realized: I slept with my basketball.
I felt so used. Yeah, it was just a basketball, but a basketball belongs in the gym, it belongs in the trunk of your car, in the hallway closet just beneath your winter coats. Basketballs do not belong on your bed. Had it had been a book bag, a raincoat, or even an athletic sneaker, I would have just chuckled and tossed it aside without thinking twice, but not a basketball.
A basketball in your bed is like a Canadian in your home…it seems like just an accident but you KNOW they’re up to something.
