The Match

This morning on TV instead of Morning Joe on MSNBC,

I decided I’ve had enough of the nasty and repulsive political

scene, so I turn the station to the French Open Tennis Match.

Although I’m not really up to snuff on the intricacies of that

sport, I find the ball being volleyed back and forth is soothing

on my nerves. The match pits Roger Federer from from Swit
zerland against the younger man, Spain’s Rafael Nadal. I notice
the ball boy in the background who is poised to retrieve balls

no longer in play on the court. I say boy because I believe that

is what they are called. Actually, he was a young man, I am

guessing around 15 or 16 years old. Tall and thin, he reminded

me of myself at that age, young, lean, endowed with good

looks and boundless energy. Anyway, at such a prime and

vital age, I took no interest in tennis; baseball was my game.

I was never good enough, however, to be a prospect for the

pros, and hadn’t a clue at the time as to what I wanted to be.

So, at seventeen, with parental permission, I enlisted in the

Army. I thought about that young man shagging balls on the

tennis court, wondering if he had a dream about becoming

a tennis pro one day? Or, would he wander off and fade into

mundane oblivion as I did way back when? The score between

Federer and Nadel is tied at 40/40 deuce. And between serves,

the young man hands Federer a towel as he wipes the sweat

from his face.

Come to think of it, I am not sure the ball boy and the attendant
to the players are one and the same. At that age, they all look
alike, and I really couldn’t say. 

Chris Hanch 6-18-19