This may or may not be inspired by an actual conversation. I’m not admitting to anything, except that my husband is a drainage engineer.
The man dribbled the basketball dejectedly as his wife pulled her car up next to the court. “How did the game go?”
He shot the ball and missed. It went bouncing away down the court. “About like that.”
His wife laughed. “It couldn’t have been that bad. How many points did you score?”
“Zero.” He slowly chased down the ball and walked to the car, where his wife was smirking at him. “It’s not my fault. I don’t have the right genetics. If I had been taller I could have gone pro. I could have been a champion,” he whined.
Her smirk didn’t fade. “Yes, we could have decorated our house with trophies and gold medals. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you sit at a desk all day. It must be your DNA’s fault.” The man slumped into the passenger seat. “Maybe you should aim for a more reachable dream,” his wife added.
“What, in engineering? They don’t give out gold medals for engineering.”
The wife laughed. “Maybe they should,” she teased.
“I could win gold in water drainage design—with my eyes closed,” the man shot back.
“Let’s call the Olympic committee. You could be a national hero.”
The man smiled and his wife pulled the car away from the empty basketball court. He may not have won the game, but at least he knew the the court would never puddle. His excellent drainage plan had taken care of that.