In Memory Of My Game

The sun rose on a recent Sunday, and when it set, My Game was gone.

It passed away at 6:45 PM, in the hands of a lovely young lady who had it wrapped around her pinky finger. The assailant, though sweet and innocent by appearance, proved to be a little too smooth for My Game. The final blow came as she allowed me to win a game of pool, thus stroking my ego and placing me exactly where she wanted me. As I boasted loudly about my prowess with a cue, she slyly nodded knowing that she had delivered the head shot and the game was all but over.

My Game had seen its climax during the joy-filled days of my youth. Back then, it was known to pull random chicks out of cars, off bus stops, and even from church pews. In 1988, it moved to Atlanta where it met and fell in love with the love of its life, thick brown-skinned sisters. Their union brought into this world many wonderful nights, weekends and sick day rendezvous. I will always cherish that.

Since my failed seven-year marriage, My Game had been suffering from delusions of grandeur. My Game thought that it could just jump back to life once I became a single man. Only one day before its passing, My Game was at an old school Saturday party attempting to convince ladies to overlook my faults. Bystanders would have never been the wiser that its best days were behind it.

This year marks the 20th anniversary of the birth of My Game.

The following Monday morning, I was quoted as saying, “We all know that we are going to leave this earth one day, and this is the time for the Lord to say, ‘Well done!’”

In memoriam, we’ll be pouring out liquor this Friday night.

Vincent Slaughter is a writer and graduate of Morehouse College. Single and living in Atlanta, Georgia, his thoughts on love and relationships are also featured on

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