Hanging OnWe've been playing quite a bit of tennis lately.
My body continues to decompose. Something is floating around in my left knee, and it occasionally makes its presence known with a jolt. Legs hurt the day after. Feet hurt almost immediately.
Still, though, Eli 14.9 can't quite beat me.
He should. His power is so extreme now that I hit a ton of shots at my shoulders. His serve is ridiculous. Plus, I have to hit three winners to win one point, because he'll hunt everything down.
If I change spins enough times, though, and depth, and trajectory, I can get him to make a mistake often enough that I can squeak by.
I think I lose the throne by the end of summer, but until then, I'm living large.
We were walking out of the courts this weekend (I'd played pretty well, for once), and I saw half a pencil on the ground.
I picked it up.
"Here, take this," I said, handing it to Eli.
"Okay," he said. "I know something's up here. What's this for?"
"If I hit too many winners, just put this in your mouth and bite down so you don't swallow your tongue," I said.
"You'd have to hit one first," he said.
We played at a local high school during a gigantic percussion contest. The entire parking lot was packed with trailers and buses, and there were about a thousand kids, all wearing black (apparently, you wear black to percussion contests). So we were serenaded with snare drum solos and the lovely xylophone, which was strangely peaceful and soothing.