Game spun out of control for ex-champs

"We are the champs! We are the champs!" My 6-year-old was chanting at the breakfast table. "Me and Phillip are the champs!"
"Phillip and I," I corrected him, with a haughty tone.
"No sir! Me and Phillip are the champs!" David retorted indignantly, completely misunderstanding my correction of his grammar.
I sighed with resignation. The truth was, I hadn't corrected him to help his grammar. I had done it because in some sick way I wanted to prove to him -- or was it myself I was trying to convince? -- that I was still better than him at something.
"I am more grammatically correct than you!" I wanted to shout at this smug, little 6-year-old. And I wanted to back it up by sticking out my tongue and blowing to make that disgusting sputtering sound right at him!
It was petty and juvenile and I knew it, but I couldn't help myself. The night before, my husband and I had lost our crown ... our reign ... our dynasty! that we had held for as long as we have known each other -- forever! -- to two twerps, 6 and 12 years old.
We were no longer the foosball champs.
What I had become was a sore loser.
How we becamethe reigning champs
When I started dating my future husband in college, I thought it was odd to have a foosball game where the dining room table should have been. That's where Pat and his roommates had theirs in their apartment, right next to the pinball machine, which was situated where a lovely hutch should have been.
But I soon warmed up to the concept -- eating at a dining table was way overrated! Pat and I started playing the game. We began challenging his roommates. Then we took our talent on the road. Two quarters made for an evening of entertainment.
After we married, Pat gained custody of the foosball table from the apartment. But, in a moment of maturity, as we started having more children and less room, he sold it to a youth group pastor. (It just did not seem a healthy example for the children to place a board over the "Joes" -- the guys on the rods that you hit the ball with -- and call it a dining room table.)
For seven, long years our household was without foos.
Four years ago, Santa Claus brought one for the children. What good fortune!
The foosing legacy began again. Pat and I would justify whupping the children in games by using ourselves as examples of teamwork and finesse. We would show the boys how to do a brush-pass or a cut-back maneuver (Pat's is pure artwork) all the while racking up points.
So when, Phillip and David challenged us to a game last night, the two champs graciously accepted.
When we started,everything was fine
It began as it always does. Pat and I win the first game. We allow our opponents to win the next. (That's right, we allow.)
I have replayed the tie-breaking game over and over in my head. I just can't figure out what went wrong. It is the equivalent of Tiger Woods being beaten by a Putt-Putter.
It started out normal; they scored a few, we scored a few. When the score reached 5-7, their favor, I pulled Pat into the other room.
"We're playing to win, right?" I asked him.
"Absolutely!" he proclaimed. "We're the champions!"
We returned to the table with renewed resolve.
We rallied back, 8-7.
"It takes two to win!" Pat said with feverish excitement.
They scored.
We gave it our all. Every time I hit the ball, I grunted like Monica Seles hitting the tennis ball.
Meanwhile, David was spinning the rods continually the way amateurs play. It was annoying -- because balls were flying by my defenders into the goal.
It was 10-9. Then 10-10.
When we hit our 11th goal, I felt victory.
But the two twerps came back with a one-two-three slam.
Before the last ball hit the cup, they went screaming through the house, "Champs! Oh Yeah! We're the Champs!"
"Sore winners," I muttered to Pat.
He nodded, shaking his de-crowned head. "Kids."
gwhite@vindy.com