So we let him play for a bit, in an effort to shut him up. He couldn't serve to save his life, but he kept trying to.
C commented on his inability to hit the birdie, and the kid mumbled, "Your mom."
"My mom? What the heck does that mean?" C asked him.
"Oh, leave him alone," I said, as I realized: "He just isn't very good at trash-talking yet."
Everybody laughed, and my sister said to him, "No, you're supposed to say it yo'mama!"
C said, "She knows what she's talking about. She's from Dee-troit!"
Okay, so maybe we grew up in the suburbs. Maybe we can't really trash-talk our way through a basketball game, much less do a reverse slam-dunk. But we still grasp the essence of trash-talking...much better than this young fellow did!