After a year of attending countless college parties, it would be assumed that my beer pong skills were nearing exemplary levels. 

I have never made a more wrong assumption in my life.

A small beer pong table had been set up in Blaine’s basement and eager to get the party started, Jackie and I joined forces and went up against one of the baseball players in attendance and Ralph, the bat boy for the team. We expected a little trouble from the baseball player Dave, but a 16-year-old going up against two seasoned college girls? With our experience, there was no way. Even as our pyramid of red Dixie cups slowly shrunk, our confidence never dwindled.

Until there was one cup left.

Anticipation settled amongst the players; I wasn’t even drunk and I was shooting worse than the entire team of New Jersey Nets. I missed my shot, cursed, and then begged Jackie to make hers. She missed as well. Having not the slightest faith in our opponents, we scoffed as we rolled the beer-drenched balls across the table. “We’ve got another chance, next turn,” we told ourselves. Ralph picked up the ball, focused his attention on the last cup, arched his arm and released. Jackie and I could do nothing but stare as the small white ball soared across the table toward us and landed into the one and only cup left on our side. The game had ended and the results were official; We gawked at Ralph in amazement. Our beer pong record had never faced such a travesty in all our weekends of playing until this single game when we lost to a 16-year-old. 

My Jack and Coke could not have run out at a worser time.