Monday, June 20, 2011

My Life as an Amateur Sportsman (Pt.1)


Violet took it upon herself to post this rough draft of mine.

Violet and I were hitting around some balls last night. This generally entails us rummaging around her parent's oddly clean yet stinky garage for a can of soggy, deflated tennis balls and arguing over who gets the child-size racket from 1974, then making the walk to the court about a half block over. I serve the ball over the net to her, she volleys it back to me and I manically flail my long limbs trying to hit it back. If I do hit it, it most likely ends up too far back in the corner for her to realistically return the volley. If not, I end up scampering around my side of the court, my body ever-weakening with giggles, erratically weilding my racket to try and capture the fugitive ball.

We usually alternate between cruelly berating each other for our complete lack of athleticism and laughing uncontrollably. While I have lanky, uncontrollable spaghetti-like limbs, Violet's movements are more akin to a drunken penguin. She baby-steps around the court, arms outstretched, and when it comes her turn to serve, in place of doing anything like what we were taught in gym class, she hurls the ball in front of her like an infant might hurl it's rattle, and swings her racket as if at random.

Even though we're not doing anything remotely close to what most would refer to as "tennis," I savor these little romps about the court. I like to entertain notions that I'll be playing tennis for a long time to come; I can only hope my future mates, as Violet is, will be as wily and incompetent as myself.

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