Going into this year's Capital Tennis Association in-house doubles tournament, everything felt right. I was playing well, I had a partner who was playing well, I've won the tournament before -- this was going to be my year again.
Needless to say, I got my ass handed to me on a platter in the second round. Two servings of ass, I suppose, given that it was a doubles tournament. There are few things in life more soul-sapping than playing a match in which your opponents play precisely the game that will beat you to a bloody pulp. In our case, it playing a match full of off-speed, well-placed touch shots that encouraged us to either play touch shots (as if!) or over hit wildly (pretty much the story of my life). Even worse, we lost to two nice guys so I couldn't even console myself by hating my opponents. Way to destroy me completely, Pierre and Bruce!
At least the weather was nice, even if the sun left me with the usual white-stripe across my forehead where my so-cool Nike bandanna was tied. Plus the wrist-band tan lines. Plus the tennis elbow tan line. Oh, and the patellar support tan line.
Damn, I'm decrepit.
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