Tuesday, August 2, 2011

40 Serving Love

My son ran me all over the tennis court the other day, leaving both me and my self-esteem sore.

Though wounded, my ego was able to throw up any number of weak justifications: I haven't played in years (decades even); he practices six hours a week with the tennis team and/or pros and every weekend with my husband; my racket is ancient (with a nauseatingly sticky grip); I have 40 year old legs; and on and on.

But he and I both know that, notwithstanding the fact that he called every single close ball in his favor, he beat me fair and square. And even though I contributed to his win by having umpteen unforced errors, I was trying my best.

He's being semi-gracious about it, but it still doesn't sit well with me. I'm raring for a rematch. I'm just going to have to sneak in some practice first.

Good grief. What am I going to do when he (inevitably) grows stronger and taller than I am?

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