April 29, 2010

The Natural

Growing up in New York City, I was a professional player of "That's My Car". 

If you are unfamiliar with the game, the rules are rather straightforward: you point to any vehicle you see and yell out "That's my car!" before anyone else can, thereby laying an imaginary claim to the car.

The game is simple.  The game is fun.  There are, I'm sure, multiple different versions of it played around the world (for example, I also used to play "That's Your Car!" with my cousins and, you can safely assume, that the car pointed at was not one any self-respecting child would ever want to own).

Today, Lil Sippy Cup and I played "That's My Car" for the first time.  Being an expert with 20+ years of playing experience, I took it easy on him, slowing down my mongoose-like reaction times to compensate for his lack of familiarity with the game. 

I pointed at a black BMW 645.  He stared out the window.

I pointed at a silver Infiniti G35.  He looked at me in silence.

I pointed at a red Lexus IS.  He kept his eyes fixed out the window.

At this point, I was beginning to think that he didn't understand the rules of the game and was about to walk away from the couch.  Suddenly he pointed out the window and yelled "That's mine!"

He was pointing at an airplane.

And, just like that, in a move filled with the subtle grace of a prodigy, Lil Sippy Cup became the Grand Master of "That's My Car".

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