Youth tennis

            Whenever they see me pull out my tennis racket, Clara and Kate slink sulkily into bed. They know this outing won’t include them.
            Tennis is a rare carryover sport from my youth. No more backyard kickball, no field hockey, no rugby, no lacrosse, no lung-ravaging wind sprints. I love tennis for the hand-eye challenge, the competition, the focus, the overhead smashes, and the running without realizing I’m doing it.
             Just as essential, though, is its social value. On an indoor court with no sun to worry about, switching sides on the odd game hardly matters, but it matters as connection time. We chat, tell stories, laugh, catch up, hear about friends, and sometimes tap into the lighthearted silliness of youth.
            “Good eye!” I called to my partner who let a ball fly out. For a while I couldn’t stop chanting an old cheer from Nellie’s softball days. “G-double-O-D-E-Y-E good eye—good eye good eye way to watch!” I don’t think my friends appreciated it as much as I did. 
 
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 156: 169 words, TOTAL = 25,415; 34,585 remaining