Finally, I found more people to play tennis with, more people to help me conserve my energy so that I don't have to go one on one with my French tennis buddy (who I swear is part Tasmanian devil. On speed.). Singles equals my chest nearly exploding every 15 minutes as I try to run down every ball and cover the whole side of the court. Doubles equals more hitting, less lateral running, less chances to twist my ankles. I think one friend called me the laziest tennis player ever.
My Tasmanian Devil friend and I, we like to run and just hit the ball as hard as we can, getting all that pent up crazy energy out on the courts. (Except for me, maybe half the energy exertion). So when our two new tennis buddies asked if we wanted to play an actual game Thursday night, we just looked at them as if they were speaking Martian, then turned to each other and said the same thing.
"Not really. We just to like run around and hit the ball."
Screw rules and regulations. Screw waiting around for serves, love this, deuce that. This is pure kid rules. Where there's no rules except you try to hit the ball back no matter how many bounces there are or how far it lands outside the lines. Lines? What lines?
By the time we tired out our new friends enough for them to call it quits, I was all boundless happiness.
"I feel great! I usually want to die after 15 minutes of playing Tasmanian Devil! But right now, I'm not tired at all!!!"
Until I got home. And every muscle, fiber, tendon, skin and bone ached from the inside out. For two days. It hurt to move. Darn it. Guess I'm not a kid after all.
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