So there we are at the Dixie Classic. As I am walking by the dunk tank booth, one of the hecklers yells at me and calls me Mario Lopez. To this day I do not understand how this would be considered an insult, but for some reason it worked on me. I pay my money and get my three baseballs. If you remember these booths, they are not ordinary dunk tanks. The target was pretty far away, about the size of a dinner plate, and up higher, which also resulted in the heckler being up higher, so you had to throw at an angle. My forte in baseball had been mashing dingers, not pitching, and even though I hadn't played baseball since middle school, I wasn't going to let this stop me. My honor had been sullied by some random carney comparing me to AC Slater, and I required satisfaction.
My first pitch was a little off, which only made the heckling louder and more profane. He asked his companion if he could get his cellphone since he was going to remain dry. Undismayed, I switch to a two-finger grip, and let fly my second ball, BOOM right in the center of the target, down goes my heckler straight into the water. As he is getting up, I hold aloft my remaining ball and stare directly at him. The heckler once again starts in on me, saying that is the only ball I have, and its more than I normally carry around. Still, I hold the ball aloft and do not break eye contact with my heckler. He continues to mock me, saying I was so lucky last time and that there is no way I could do it again. By this point a crowd has begun to gather. I wait patiently, until he has reset himself up on his perch, his jeering continuing, then I let fly my third and final ball. It hits dead center, and he drops again straight into the water. I walk away from the booth to the claps and cheers of the crowd, my honor restored.