Today I played racquetball for the first time in two years. Scott Olling plays an unabashedly Old Man's Game. Instead of going for passing shots, he hits crazy shots off the side that hit several walls and end up who knows where. We ended up drenched in sweat. Clothes that you wear playing racquetball may never smell good again.In other news, the New York Times has declared Philadelphia to be "the new Brooklyn." That makes Cleveland the new Philadelphia, and Baltimore the new Cleveland.
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HA! Unabashed? I feel pretty bashed, and a cursory analysis of my movements would reveal that I am, today, nearly crippled . . .
I hit: the ball (many times, mostly the ones I served) with the racquet; the wall with the ball (off the racquet, and off of me, specifically knees and one shoulder); the wall with racquet (trying to hit Mark's incredible sidewall-hugging tennis-player style lob, which he inevitably hails with, "oh, I'm likin' the way that's lookin'!" -grrrr), the wall, glass and floor with my person (mostly with my back, with a little forearm thrown in for stylepoints); oh, and Mark, with the ball and with my self - it was his fault: he wasn't supposed to be there.
Oh, and that's me on the left, with more hair, and younger, in better shoes, certainly faster and not greased with sweat - and wearing a t-shirt with a picture on it, which I've sworn never to do again - - but the position is absolutely correct: completely away from the shot, probably thinking, "oooh! look! A little blue ball . . . "
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