“Whoa, who’s that?” you ask your friend, pointing across the bar at the old man standing by the shuffleboard table. He wears a Hawaiian shirt, cheap plastic sunglasses, pink floral flip-flops, and khaki shorts with an inseam that can’t be longer than six inches. Not an ounce of shame resides in his game.
“You don’t know?” your friend shoots back, incredulous of your ignorance. “That’s old man Rogers. They call him the Shuffleboard Master. Ain’t a man alive ever bested him on the plank. They say he made a deal with the shuffleboard devil.”
Before he’s finished speaking, your up off the barstool and halfway to the shuffleboard table.
“Dude, no!” your friend calls after you. “He’ll wipe the floor with you! You don’t stand a chance!”
You ignore him, striding chest-out toward the Shuffleboard Master.
“Rogers!” you shout. “I’m calling you out!”
The old man doesn’t even turn toward you, but he lets out a soft chuckle. “You got brass ones, kid, I’ll give you that. I’ll play a round with you, sure. I haven’t had a warm-up yet today.”
You shuffleboard as hard as you’ve ever shuffleboarded, but Rogers seems to not even break a sweat. His shuffleboarding is fluid, powerful, and magnificent to behold. It doesn’t even take two minutes for him to shuffleboard you into the ground.
“Nice try, kid. Here’s some free advice: don’t shuffleboard with something to prove. Shuffleboarding’s a beautiful dance, not a vicious battle. Let go of that hate, it don’t slide along the sand too well.”
You decide to switch to ping-pong.