No Gut, No Balls

Green fuzzies grinning back at me. This is what happens when you try to cut down on sports expenses.

The nasty ol’ Sampras fan has — after nearly two decades — made a comeback to tennis. Just one of the many positive developments rising from an abrupt decision two months ago: to quit smoking. I have never been so generous with my lungs. Hopefully, the quitting goes on in this lifetime.  So I pulled out the battle-scarred racket from the treasure chest, dusted it off a little, and sampled some immortal forehand, backhand swing. More or less, the feel is still there. The love is still there.
I ran to the mall for some practice balls. The inexpensive ones. The ones you can find in a Japanese thrift shop sitting on the same rack with the Ramen noodles. The ones humbly labeled in yokogaki and branded “Tennis Balls.” The likes that crack after only a dozen big forehands.

Let the game of the sons of Mercury begin! Believe me, tennis is mostly ruled by Geminis like me.

8 thoughts on “No Gut, No Balls

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