A long time ago, in a land far far away, I used to play racquetball, but again...it has been awhile.
At the end of last quarter I found out two of my classmates played every week and they invited me to play. During the snow storm, I thought I would rekindle my skills and dad and I played a few games at the Y. I felt pretty good...not bad...but then came last week.
Last week was our first match-up...cut-throat style. Six years out of the game versus two guys who have been playing for a while?
Killed.
Demolished.
Slaughtered.
I mean I've never played where the ball is served at me at 9 bagillion miles an hour. And on top of that? I couldn't lift my right arm for three days. Plus, it hurt to even write my forearm was so sore.
The next day I was recapping my trip down loserville to Ben and he reminded me of a conversation that he had with one of the guys--that he used to play very competitive tennis...professional in my book. That's when it all started to make sense. No matter where I hit that stupid blue rubber ball, he was always there for the return. Seriously, I would hit it an inch off the ground and out of nowhere he would dive and get it (okay not literally, but you get the point).
The rematch was on today...and guess what? I didn't get killed quite as much. Of course they won (and not by a few points either), but I gave them more of a run for their money. My serves were better placed, my shots stronger, and my feet quicker. It could be the secret 5 a.m. serving drills I run every morning...just kidding...
My arm and back hurts as I'm typing...but not as much as last week. Woo Hoo!
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