Even though we got our ass kicked (6-0, 6-1) by a couple of old women, one of whom had a knee brace, I rocked at tennis Saturday. Here's why:
1. I wore a sporty pair of retro-style shorts with the stripes down the sides.
2. I worked on perfecting my John McEnroe impersonation by cursing - and often - when I'd hit a ball too hard for the millionth time, thus sending it beyond any semblance of a white line.
3. I raced around like an idiot doing pirouettes "en plein air" whereby slowly working on getting good at a second sport: air acrobatics.
4. I actually hit all except TWO balls that came whizzing at me.
5. My serves improved heartily once I realized we weren't going to win. I guess my nervousness wore off and my killer spin serve came back to me.
6. I regarded them as "the enemy" at the beginning but shook their hands at the end.
7. The winning opponents had been playing most of their lives, they said, and we didn't do half bad on a point-by-point basis.
My teammate and I are meeting up after work Wednesday to practice, and we play again next Saturday. Same time, different location. We'll win yet if I have anything to say - or do - about it. The evil hand of competition is rearing its ugly claw yet again. Woooooooooooo!