There ought to be a law
To the dude three or four buildings east from Fairview on the north side of Marshall Ave, Saint Paul: Your building's lawn space is scarcely larger than two ping pong tables (separated by a paved walkway). What the fuck are you doing with a leaf blower?
-cK
The Linesman
So there we were, Ryan and I, embroiled in a tense 1-6, 0-3 match on a public tennis court. I'd lost nine straight, true, but I was serving and determined to claw my way back into this donnybrook. Across my previous three service games, despite my being on the losing end of them, I'd managed to ace the self-titled "Springfield Express" not once not twice but thrice with a serve so airless that the ball bounced twice before reaching him. I'd had trouble locating the second serve, but I felt a comeback hounding the horizon.
Then a stranger entered the courts.
At the far end of the pavement, two gentlemen, one of whom was quite portly, took a rest. The larger of the two extolled the virtues of tennis for keeping in shape. "You look at me and I got these fat rolls," he said, "but you see me move at that ball." Indeed. He was quite spry and ultra-competitive during the points. I envied his headband.
Now, the third stranger was a loner. Perhaps he'd wandered up from the nearby craft fair that had set up shop along the road. He wore a short sleeve, intensely striped shirt (horizontal stripes) and Dockers-esque pants into which he'd tucked this shirt with the pristine intensity of military corners on a bed sheet. His hair was hard-parted across the top of his forehead, reminiscent of Christopher Reeve from Superman. He wore black rimmed glasses. So this man enters the courts, and with a robotic precision steps up onto the bench, puts his fists on his hips, rears back his shoulders (fine posture), and stands with legs akimbo. He stares at us.
Fair enough.
Warily, Ryan and I play on. The third serve I attempt under this supervision is greeted with a grunt from our courtside friend. I couldn't tell whether he said "long," "fault," or just "no"; but he said something.
Christ.
So now I'm trying not to laugh (Not that my game was going to get worse), and adopt an even softer serve. I'm playing defense from before the point begins, determined to land things in play because I don't want to compel any sort of response or conversation from him. At the same time, I become aware that a spectacularly long point might engross him, however timid that point might be: yawning lobs, false grunts, the infrequent squeak of a sneaker. I was in need of a diplomatic coup.
Seconds stretched. Light from a star so distant scientists have yet to discover it landed upon us.
Wait! Wait! Relief. He leaves of his own accord. Confrontation, friendly or otherwise, averted.
Loser's Trophy: 1-6, 1-6. Two fence posts of pride.
-cK
