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.
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.