Sporty? Perhaps not

So, every year the Super Bowl sneaks up on me. I generally find out it is happening [again] because avocados are on sale. Not just that, there are signs screaming at me from every corner of HEB, "Don't Forget The Avocados!!!" What kind of slacker ever forgets the avocados?! Needless to say, I'm not the sportiest chica on record.

Yesterday I'm waiting by the elevators at work for my lunch buddy. I'm standing next to someone from accounting and the accounting executive walks over along with an elegantly dressed older black man and starts formulating lunch plans with my neighbor. I'm half listening, half entranced by the black man's snazzy black and white patent leather shoes. She is making introductions and I half hear his name. Then she turns to me, "I'm sorry. I don't think we've met." My brilliant reply, "Oh, I'm not part of your lunch group... but my name is Mindy." Like I said, brilliant!

She repeats the introduction of Mr. Patent Leather dress shoes, "This is Tony Parker, Sr." Hmmm. That name sounds so familiar. He looks strikingly familiar. Where do I know him from? We reach out to shake hands and my eyes no long notice the shine of his shoes, just the shine of the NBA championship ring.

Oh dear. Goodness me. Fish sticks. The tetris pieces are falling into place in my sports deprived brain. He looks like his son, The Tony Parker of the Spurs. (Note: I include the descriptive phrase "of the Spurs" for my fellow less-than-sporty friends.) This man is practically San Antonio Royalty.

Just call me Sporty Spice.