“We have great news, your item(s) have shipped to the following address …” –the beginning of an e-mail that arrived in my in-box.
“Great news”? I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.
Listen, I can understand why the sales representative would think I’d view the shipment of the ABA replica basketball as “great news.” I did, after all, order the retro, Dr. J-era, red-white-and-blue ball. And the rep is correct in his assumption that I placed this order of my own volition.
But even if the rep had doubts as to whether I’d willingly placed the order, he’d surely have forgotten them in his own elation over the completion of another successful transaction. This rep’s job and his company’s success, of course, depend on the shipment of ABA replica basketballs, and for them this was, in no uncertain terms, “great news.”
And while I don’t want to spoil any celebrations that the rep and his company may be having, I would like them to be aware that I was thrown a bit by the e-mail. In fact, since receiving it, I have been unable to sleep. We’ll see if that changes once bedtime comes.
Part of the reason for my uneasiness, I suppose, is that one of my best friends recently had a healthy baby and sent me an e-mail saying so with the subject header “Great News.” There’s no way the rep could have known any of this, but still, his e-mail has now kind of cheapened the whole miracle of birth for me.
Maybe I’m hopscotching around the issue. The truth is, at the moment when I placed the order, I, too, probably would have classified the eventual shipment of the basketball as “great news.” Let me set the scene for you:
Last Tuesday, my boss called me into her office, closed the door and told me she’d like me to put aside my work for the afternoon to ponder whether I wanted to buy an ABA replica basketball and, if the answer was yes, to research the means for doing so. I am nothing if not efficient, though, and after a quick look at one of the balls on an online merchant site, I was hooked.
I placed my order, and for three to five seconds, I was happy. But soon, I began to worry:
– Is the ball suitable for outdoor use, or will one bounce on pavement turn it into the rubbery consistency of my great-grandmother’s cheeks?
– If the box doesn’t specify as much, should I risk using it or just keep it as a decoration in my home?
– If I use it, what will be the reaction at the playground, where I have accumulated so much credibility with my game? Will I be respected further for having the ball, or is the retro ’70s vibe now considered passe? And if I am respected for the ball, might it not then get stolen? And if I’m worrying about that, what will happen to my game?
In other words, even if the ball is suitable for outdoor use, should I still keep it as decoration? But will my wife go for that? Didn’t she say she was trying to eliminate stuff from the apartment? But what if she didn’t say that? If I ask her and it turns out not to be true, will she assume I am having an affair with a woman who does want to eliminate stuff from her apartment? And will my angry, hurt wife then go out and really have an affair?
So, I ask the question again: “Great news”?
The chances, obviously, are slim.
In my future orders of ABA replica balls, I can only hope the rep has the decency to rephrase his e-mails as “We may have great news.” That would be cause for celebration.
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mebazer@yahoo.com
