artsy.”
Polly seemed able to stir herself easily into any situation—Eve's house, my tennis life—yet at the same time she seemed to belong nowhere and to nothing. The girl boggled my mind. She reminded me so much of Janie. Though I felt terrible when Coach or my mom tried talking to me about Janie, I was fine with Polly's resemblance to her—remembering the fun Janie and I had before she lost her mind.
Despite the cold my face continued burning. I was embarrassed, delighted. “How come you did this?”
Polly slung her arm around me in her eager way. “Because you don't hate tennis, right? So here we are. Play.”
“I can't play, I don't have an opponent; I just come here to serve.”
“So serve. We don't mind, right, Melissa?”
“No, we don't care,” Melissa said.
They aligned themselves against the fence. Waiting.
Bounce, bounce, bounce. Separate hands. Racquet back. Toss the ball—
“Should I cheer yet?” Polly blurted out.
The ball fell limply to the court. My concentration faltered. What concentration? It was gone. “You don't cheer in tennis. You clap politely for a good shot. You say nothing during a serve.”
“Yeah,” Melissa said, as if she knew.
“Oh,” Polly said, uninterested in those confining regulations. “Maybe I could find a place to cheer if you would hurry up and serve.”
Enough of this. I stuffed my pockets with Penn balls for easy access and shot them at her and Melissa, one, two, three, four …
“Hey! Quit! No fair!” Polly squealed.
Grabbing the flimsy paper sack, she spread it across them, as if it offered protection. Ha!
Five, six, seven, eight more balls …
“Where's my cheering?” I asked, laughing so hard my gut ached. “I don't hear any cheering! These are excellent shots. Go ahead and cheer. I'm waiting.”
“Agg!” Polly said, laughing too.
P iles of tennis academy brochures are infiltrating my world with no letup in sight. Thick, glossy brochures, pamphlets, and catalogs from every warm state in America are basically
breeding
in my parents’ mailbox. I can barely keep up with them.
The postman has a streak of wickedness. When I politely asked him to stop delivering the brochures—to simply chuck them in the trash—he sighed at me, mumbled something about a “federal offense,” and then unmercifully shoved a bunch more into the box, out of spite, probably.
I've managed to intercept a few thick packets. Unfortunately, one from Bickford Academy in Florida slippedby me and is now in the clutches of my parents. The brochures I've taken—from California and Florida—are loaded with bright pictures of teens gripping racquets and holding trophies. The captions say things like “Make a Winner for a Lifetime” and “Our Teaching Pros Make the Difference.”
They don't fool me. I know the statistics. Only three or four elite kids out of the two hundred kids from an academy will have a chance to make it on the professional circuit. Those aren't good odds. Even the exceptionally gifted won't become top-ten players as professionals. They'll be ranked in the fifties or sixties for their entire careers. A champion—what a joke.
Recently, my parents have been going over the stack of brochures that managed to get through. A few times a week they sit at the kitchen table and discuss them. Often now, my face has the imprint of the heating vent on it as I eavesdrop, listening to them talk
about
me in
regard
to tennis.
Mom: “They're
children,
Frank.”
Dad: “They're playing sports in the fresh air.”
Mom: “It's a boot camp.”
Dad: “They have to have rules. Would you rather have a hundred kids running amok, doing as they pleased?”
Mom: “Their childhoods are consumed by rankings and tournament titles. It's not healthy, Frank. It's not normal.”
Dad: “Normal is watching five hours of TV a day. Normalcy breeds mediocrity.”
Mom: “Running for president with that slogan?”
Dad: “This guy today—he might be exactly what Hall
Polly seemed able to stir herself easily into any situation—Eve's house, my tennis life—yet at the same time she seemed to belong nowhere and to nothing. The girl boggled my mind. She reminded me so much of Janie. Though I felt terrible when Coach or my mom tried talking to me about Janie, I was fine with Polly's resemblance to her—remembering the fun Janie and I had before she lost her mind.
Despite the cold my face continued burning. I was embarrassed, delighted. “How come you did this?”
Polly slung her arm around me in her eager way. “Because you don't hate tennis, right? So here we are. Play.”
“I can't play, I don't have an opponent; I just come here to serve.”
“So serve. We don't mind, right, Melissa?”
“No, we don't care,” Melissa said.
They aligned themselves against the fence. Waiting.
Bounce, bounce, bounce. Separate hands. Racquet back. Toss the ball—
“Should I cheer yet?” Polly blurted out.
The ball fell limply to the court. My concentration faltered. What concentration? It was gone. “You don't cheer in tennis. You clap politely for a good shot. You say nothing during a serve.”
“Yeah,” Melissa said, as if she knew.
“Oh,” Polly said, uninterested in those confining regulations. “Maybe I could find a place to cheer if you would hurry up and serve.”
Enough of this. I stuffed my pockets with Penn balls for easy access and shot them at her and Melissa, one, two, three, four …
“Hey! Quit! No fair!” Polly squealed.
Grabbing the flimsy paper sack, she spread it across them, as if it offered protection. Ha!
Five, six, seven, eight more balls …
“Where's my cheering?” I asked, laughing so hard my gut ached. “I don't hear any cheering! These are excellent shots. Go ahead and cheer. I'm waiting.”
“Agg!” Polly said, laughing too.
P iles of tennis academy brochures are infiltrating my world with no letup in sight. Thick, glossy brochures, pamphlets, and catalogs from every warm state in America are basically
breeding
in my parents’ mailbox. I can barely keep up with them.
The postman has a streak of wickedness. When I politely asked him to stop delivering the brochures—to simply chuck them in the trash—he sighed at me, mumbled something about a “federal offense,” and then unmercifully shoved a bunch more into the box, out of spite, probably.
I've managed to intercept a few thick packets. Unfortunately, one from Bickford Academy in Florida slippedby me and is now in the clutches of my parents. The brochures I've taken—from California and Florida—are loaded with bright pictures of teens gripping racquets and holding trophies. The captions say things like “Make a Winner for a Lifetime” and “Our Teaching Pros Make the Difference.”
They don't fool me. I know the statistics. Only three or four elite kids out of the two hundred kids from an academy will have a chance to make it on the professional circuit. Those aren't good odds. Even the exceptionally gifted won't become top-ten players as professionals. They'll be ranked in the fifties or sixties for their entire careers. A champion—what a joke.
Recently, my parents have been going over the stack of brochures that managed to get through. A few times a week they sit at the kitchen table and discuss them. Often now, my face has the imprint of the heating vent on it as I eavesdrop, listening to them talk
about
me in
regard
to tennis.
Mom: “They're
children,
Frank.”
Dad: “They're playing sports in the fresh air.”
Mom: “It's a boot camp.”
Dad: “They have to have rules. Would you rather have a hundred kids running amok, doing as they pleased?”
Mom: “Their childhoods are consumed by rankings and tournament titles. It's not healthy, Frank. It's not normal.”
Dad: “Normal is watching five hours of TV a day. Normalcy breeds mediocrity.”
Mom: “Running for president with that slogan?”
Dad: “This guy today—he might be exactly what Hall
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