Harlot across the net extends a hand: "Boy, you really hate to see that happen, don't you?" It's like The Net Cord Sorry. You're "sorry" the ball clipped the net and dropped over way, way out of reach - but you're not sorry because you won the point. Wench.
After two days of tennis and a soul-crushing defeat in the semi finals, I am done with tennis for a while. Really. I let my partner down and I feel like I'd let everyone down, even though our match wouldn't have tilted the balance in our favor anyway. You always feel like you could've been the tipping point.
I tell my partner that I've foolishly agreed to play more tennis that afternoon, despite my fatigue and disgust.
"I'm over it. I don't feel like it. Can't take anymore today. Especially with this terrible serving."
She shakes her head no. "No," she says. "You need to play." She hands me a bag of ice for my shoulder, winks, and walks to her car.
Lessons, everywhere.
Pause for a moment, breathe. Heal, get back up. Do it again. Fix it, make it better.
Such lessons. Everywhere.
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