Strikeout
When I was in the 6th grade, my friend Daisy started a rumor that I liked one of the hottest 11 year olds, Hoja. The rumor spread like wildfire, and by the end of the day everyone knew about my supposed crush.
On the bus ride home I angrily asked Daisy, “Why did you tell people I liked Hoja?”
“I saw you sitting across from her in math class and noticed you blushing,” she said. “I was just joking about the rumor. It’s not true, is it?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” I replied.
“Oh I’m sorry…Do you want me to ask her out for you?”
“Umm…I guess. But don’t tell her I told you to.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her tomorrow,” Daisy said.
The next afternoon on the bus Daisy told me that Hoja had declined her offer. I didn’t speak to Hoja the rest of 6th grade, and was ecstatic when she moved away the following year.
Little did I know my sixth grade self was setting the pattern that would hold for years to come. Here are the best of my more recent strikeouts.
1
I see a girl sitting at a table with her friends. I approach.
Me: Hi, can I buy you a drink?
Chick: No.
Quick, simple and to the point. I like that. Come to think of it, I don’t think she even looked at me. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
2
I went to William & Mary to visit my friend. The whole college has only a couple bars, one of which is more of a deli. It’s pathetic. Anyway, after eating a beef brisket sandwich, a herd of girls came in following a sorority function. Maybe it was the brisket, but I felt bold.
Me: Hey, how are you?
Chick: I’m alright.
Me: I’m Ben, I go to UVA. What’s your name?
Chick: UVA…you suck!
There was no way to feel bad about that exchange. Being disqualified on account of my school is downright discrimination. Plus I give her props – that was fucking hilarious.
3
I was throwing the best game of my life on this girl. I was witty, pleasant, and polite. At the end of our conversation she spelled it out: "I’m married."
If I had “Tivo for real life” then I’d rewind and record my dialogue, then use it on a different, unmarried girl. Conversation like that only happens once a year. It’s a shame I wasted it on a married woman. Better luck next year.
4
For hours I was thinking of the words I would tell her. I was nervous as hell, so they didn’t come out exactly as I had prepared.
Me: There’s something I’ve been meaning to get off my chest…I have a crush on you.
Chick: Really? I had no idea.
Me: Yeah. For like two months now.
Chick: Wow…thanks.
That’s the exact response I was looking for. In retrospect I should’ve said, “You’re welcome.”
The next day I sent her an email that read, “Sorry about yesterday. That’s something that nobody should ever do sober.”
5
The bar was crowded this night. The music was loud and the pressure was on. I casually walked over to a girl standing by herself and did my thing as nobody else can. The conversation seemed to be going well until:
Me: I’d offer to buy you a drink, but…I see…you’re holding one in your hand right now.
Chick: Uh yeah. Good observation.
Me: Thank you.
Perhaps the smart move would be to walk away at that point. But I persisted until I couldn’t think of anything else to say. There was a long pause, and then I ended it with:
Me: I’m going to go over there and see what my buddy’s up to. It’s nice to meet you. My name is Ben, but I don’t think you gave me yours.
Chick: Yes I did. It’s Gayle.
Me: Oh...Well, see ya later.
I really have to work on remembering names. Or, simply the fact that she already told me one.
I saw her the following week and approached her, again.
Me: I remember you from last week. And I know your name this time. It’s Kayle.
Chick: No it’s not. It’s Gayle.
6
I’m a wee bit intoxicated, and it’s the end of the night. I decide to set up shop in one section and start dancing by myself. My friend Zeke is laughing at me, as well he should. After several seconds of this disgrace, a very tall girl gets behind me and starts dancing. She had to be at least six feet tall. With my back to her, I signal to Zeke that this girl is huge.
What is my signal, you ask?
I lift my arm in the air above my head and move my hand up and down like an elevator. “She’s a monster,” I whisper to Zeke. I hope she doesn’t hear me, or see my easily visible hand.
I move right. She moves with me.
I move left. She moves with me.
I move right again. She moves with me.
Then, she taps me on the shoulder.
“No, I’m actually just trying to get by,” she says.
Guys can only dream of being that suave.
More of my Strikeouts here: