Growing up, I was a huge fan of the University of Kentucky basketball. I still follow them closely, but nothing like when I was younger. I idolized their players, I knew all their stats, I watched their games on TV like it was a life or death struggle. My favorite player when I was in third grade was Kyle Macy, and I proclaimed myself his younger brother, even if he didn’t know it.
One day, I was shooting baskets at a local playground when a high school boy came over to shoot with me. We started talking, and as my conversations usually went, within ten seconds I was telling him how much I loved the Kentucky Wildcats and Kyle Macy.
“Really?” he said. “I know Kyle Macy.”
“YOU know KYLE MACY!” I said, not believing my luck.
“Yeah, I sure do. In fact, I’ve got some of his autographs at home,” he said nonchalantly.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Would you like one?”
“YEAH!”
“OK, I know your house. I’ll put one in your mailbox later tonight, and it will be there when you wake up in the morning.”
“Cool!” I said, and ran home to tell my mom of this divinely-directed meeting I’d just had.
After a restless night of sleep that would put Christmas Eve to shame, I jumped up out of bed and ran to the mailbox, knocking over tables and various elderly relatives to get to my Holy Grail. And, of course, when I got there, the mailbox was empty. Nothing hurts like a broken promise.