Dear Diary,
Never in my life had I ever thought that a bunch of guys chasing around an inflated piece of cowhide thousands of kilometres away could affect my sex life. That has always been the domain of my bad choices and unfortunate circumstances. Not football.
There’s this woman, you see, her name is Shirley. Of all the women I’ve tried to woo, Shirley is probably the prettiest. I mean, she’s the whole package: Smart, thoughtful, considerate, funny, and it doesn’t hurt that she has the body of a goddess. This is a specimen that God took his time to create, most likely on a Monday after resting over the weekend.
Thing is, Shirley likes me, but when it comes to dating me, she turns into Mother Teresa. And I don’t mean that she gives food to the poor and prays for the sick.
The other day, we met as I was going to the shop. The first thing she said was, “Hi, Tom. I see you’re still going for breakfast by yourself. No wife yet?”
“Haven’t you heard?” I said. “The beautiful ones are not yet born.”
“Nice comeback, Tom. That’s the perfect way to make sure you’ll always be buying breakfast by yourself.”
I don’t like when Shirley and I are not getting along. So, I go into crisis management mode. “Shirley, since you won’t hear my pleas, how about we make a bet.”
“I’m listening,” she said.
“If I get to 50 years old and you’re still single, I bite the bullet and make a good wife of you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What makes you think I’ll be willing be to take the leftovers of every woman in Kenya? You’ll probably not even be able to walk or use the toilet.”
“C’mon, Shirley. You can’t be that cold.”
She laughed haughtily. “I’m kidding. Where’s your sense of humour this morning? Tell you what, where do you stand on football?”
“As in am I a fan? Not really. Snooker is my game. But what did you have in mind — a trip to the World Cup? I hear Seattle is very nice this time of year.”
“So, you do know about it. Well, I love football. Argentina is my team.” She punched the air with a fist. “Go, Messi!”
“I’ve heard of him. Isn’t he the goalkeeper for the Japanese team?”
She almost collapses in shock. “Are you kidding me right now? Everyone knows who Messi is.”
With a smile, I say, “I’m only kidding. Where’s your sense of humour this morning?”
“Touché. I was thinking I could sweeten the pot a little bit. That’s a gambling term.”
“I know what it means. You want to make the bet better. How?”
“I usually support African teams before they’re knocked out. Nine of them are still in the game. Here’s my bet. If the first African team to play in the knockout rounds wins the game, I’ll come over to your place, make you dinner in booty shorts and you can have whatever you want for dessert.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re not playing with me, are you?”
“You know me. My word is my bond.”
I rushed home, looked up the World Cup calendar and informed Jenny, my temporary roommate, that as soon as South African beat Canada on Sunday, things were happening on Monday.
Now, imagine me, never an
avid football fan, watching the game like a hawk. Every minute that ticked at
0-0 brought me closer to a date with Shirley. And then in the ninety-plus
minute, South Africa had to go and lose the game.
Today, you don’t want to be in my shoes.
