I think, at some point in my youth, I was a decent tennis player. I took lessons at the park, I competed in tournaments, and played, for two years, on the varsity team. I was in possession of a few physical attributes. Though I wasn’t tall, and wouldn’t physically develop until my late teens, I had a naturally powerful forehand and backhand. Though I write and throw left-handed, I learned to play right-handed, since I’m curiously ambidextrous. This meant I swung my backhand like I was in the batter’s box, hitting a thudding, flat ball that was tough to return if I ever kept it in. My first serve came in hot and fast and often out. I liked the fast twitch rhythm of volleying. If everything went my way, tennis was exquisite, requiring the mental strain of chess and the endurance of long-distance running and the inherent hatred that you nurture of your opponent in a boxing match. I’d like to think, if I stuck with it, I could’ve been a contender.
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