A few evenings back, my brother and I made our way through four or five Times Square-adjacent bars, happily and successfully flirting with several tables of women at each stop.

At the very last bar, however, on the way out the door and back to my apartment, I tossed out a bit of – what at least seemed to me – witty banter for the hostess. She, apparently, found it far less amusing, a point she rather cuttingly made clear.

And as I look back, even as I recognize that the evening was, percentage-wise, one of the best I’ve ever had, I’m plagued by that one brutal crash-and-burn far more than I’m pleased by the blur of preceding successes.

Sure, life is a numbers game. And I know that I can’t bat a thousand. But, to stretch the metaphor, it seems I still haven’t mastered the fine art of striking out without feeling like I got hit in the head by the pitch.