It's ridiculous how pleased I am with my new-found flip-cupping skills. I should have guessed really - the only games I've ever been able to win have generally involved either international drinking rules, treble word scores or a cunning combination of the two. Imbibe = 36 points. If only I'd had a D, and I'd be wiping the beer-sloshed floor with you, my worthy opponent.
On the court it's a whole different ball-game. This week I don't get the full-face, jaw-jolting shot, but I do suffer a lot of smaller hits to my person and my dignity. The stinging slaps to my arms and stomach which are already blooming a royal purple. The soft balls I throw and they catch, when I should have been the one catching and keeping my team in the game. The dodges I shoulda woulda coulda made. I do make one catch - from a girl who throws like a girl - and for a second in my head it's glory and tinsel falling from the sky and I'm a Mighty Duck being slapped on the back by a grinning Emilo Estevez who is a Sheen in all but name. Then it's a dull thud to the thigh and the glory is over.
Not so in the bar afterwards where the beer is cold and cheap and smells like acrid lemonade. Round after round I flip that cup like a pro. I discover that my Peter Pointer has just the right combination of strength and agility to do the job quickly and without incurring the half-joking wrath of my team-mates. For once, I am not the weakest link.
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