Don’t Shoot the Messenger

From the 14th floor of my hotel, electronic trumpets sounded from beneath the hoods of modern day, four-wheeled iron chariots. The noise echoed for blocks. I was in town to cover the annual meeting of the Southern Baptist Convention. Never in my wildest dreams did I believe I would be struggling to get some shut-eye among this normally tranquil crowd.

Had Baptists taken to the streets in protest? Why all the excitement? Was there an emergency? Had there been an invasion? Was the building on fire? Why would hundreds of otherwise civil people be pounding their automobile horns at 11 p.m.?
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When it came to sports, I was always Mr. Average. I’ve ridden plenty of pine in my day. I remember one particular basketball game where no matter who the coach pulled from the bench, we weren’t going to win. As the clock ticked down to less than one minute, I remember thinking, whatever happens, please don’t send me in now.

Then it happened. It was as if life shifted into slow motion as the coach looked down the bench and yelled, “Sanders! Sanders you’re in the game.” No not now, I thought! Wow, a whole 40 seconds to turn the game around. Why doesn’t he just send me to the locker room for towels or something?
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