The Catch

My high school pals got married to each other this year. The fateful bouquet throwing moment arrives and behold, it’s sailing right at me. That primal thinking kicks in, my pulse quickens, and I have a choice to make. I take a generous step to my right and watch the sequins fly. A decision without hesitation.

Later that summer, one of the higher ranked tennis players on the men’s professional tour launches an autographed ball into the stands. I watch, along with a hundred other people lingering after the match, as it eclipses the sun, arcs back to earth and rockets directly at the seats in front of me. A group of women, vocal supporters for this guy, squawk and angle themselves for the catch. Another decision, another second of instinctual thought. I reach over them, both arms outstretched, and catch it clean out of the air, inches above their fingers. I pull the ball to my chest, heart thumping.

Was it greedy? What is the etiquette of an autographed-ball-catching scenario? Every woman for herself, I’ve decided. Gut responses are moments of extreme honesty. What am I willing to reach for? Am I a generous person who would let the other, more devoted fans take home a souvenir? Do I want the bouquet, that precious symbol of optimism? Nope.