I’d always thought it was the stuff of movies; B-grade comedies with a heaping dash of slapstick. The possibility itself seemed real but I’d never fathomed the execution. You stepped onto the waxed hardwood and gave your targets a look of either pity or confirmed conspiracy. Because when you wound up to throw—your arm in a wanton sweeping arc—you let go of the ball at the halfway-point and it came crashing towards us. We all jumped and dove out of its path as it trampled beer cans and street shoes, while the gleaming, pearl pins stood tall and untouched in the distance.