Tennis Anyone?
ToMas, only because I said I would - not because I'm gloating or that I think it will ever happen again.
It was shaping up to be a great day anyway. I was done with school for the week; I got home and the dogs weren't exploded so I let them out. I felt good about the prospect of playing a little December tennis since it was almost 60 degrees and sunny at 3:30.
My playing partner is a nut for tennis like I am for golf. Hours spent discussing the nuances of the trajectories of spheres constitutes a temporary heaven. He is much a better player than I am; he has hit more balls and taken more lessons than I ever have. He is the coach of both tennis teams at a large high school, so he was obviously looking forward to kicking my ass up and down the court.
The first glimmer of hope came when I held my serve leveling the score to one-one. Then I broke, 2-1, then I held again, 3-1, he held, 3-2, I broke again, 4-2, held again, 5-2, he held, 5-3 and I had a chance to serve out for the win. Except it wasn't that easy.
At this point I am huffing and swearing at the cigarettes that have me wheezing. I am sweating through all my clothes. I am feeling like an old man.
My serve had been shaky at best before today, but this was no ordinary day, no ordinary love. I gave it a quick tune-up and, as Emeril would say, BAM. My serves were on fucking fire. Despite the fact that my serves made Federere look like a chump, I was looking at love-30. Then a quick one, two. Then a lucky bounce. Then I am serving at 40-30. Then a motherfucking ace in yo face - not an 8-track.
As I'm sure this was the worst my opponent has ever played since he was 5 years old, I am not going to gloat or think that I'll be doing this consistently, but fucking A, this felt good.
It was shaping up to be a great day anyway. I was done with school for the week; I got home and the dogs weren't exploded so I let them out. I felt good about the prospect of playing a little December tennis since it was almost 60 degrees and sunny at 3:30.
My playing partner is a nut for tennis like I am for golf. Hours spent discussing the nuances of the trajectories of spheres constitutes a temporary heaven. He is much a better player than I am; he has hit more balls and taken more lessons than I ever have. He is the coach of both tennis teams at a large high school, so he was obviously looking forward to kicking my ass up and down the court.
The first glimmer of hope came when I held my serve leveling the score to one-one. Then I broke, 2-1, then I held again, 3-1, he held, 3-2, I broke again, 4-2, held again, 5-2, he held, 5-3 and I had a chance to serve out for the win. Except it wasn't that easy.
At this point I am huffing and swearing at the cigarettes that have me wheezing. I am sweating through all my clothes. I am feeling like an old man.
My serve had been shaky at best before today, but this was no ordinary day, no ordinary love. I gave it a quick tune-up and, as Emeril would say, BAM. My serves were on fucking fire. Despite the fact that my serves made Federere look like a chump, I was looking at love-30. Then a quick one, two. Then a lucky bounce. Then I am serving at 40-30. Then a motherfucking ace in yo face - not an 8-track.
As I'm sure this was the worst my opponent has ever played since he was 5 years old, I am not going to gloat or think that I'll be doing this consistently, but fucking A, this felt good.
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