I didn’t notice them pick up their racquets, even though I was sitting right there.
With lobs fiercer than anything that Nadal or Djokovich would hit this week at Wimbledon, they went at it.
The speed and brutal power was hard to watch.
“I just want you to know that I don’t want to be resuscitated if it comes to that. I’m ready to die.”
“You’re not thinking this through. There are situations were resuscitation makes sense. Like if there were drug interactions.”
“No. If I can die, I want to. Not that I’d take my life or anything like that.”
“You wouldn’t want to see your granddaughter graduate from high school?”
“I can’t believe you’re being so selfish.”
“Selfish? Do you know what it’s like to live in this body? It’s selfish of you not to understand what I’m going through.”
“You’re not thinking logically.”
“I wish I had been there for you when you were growing up. Maybe you’d be less selfish and more compassionate.”
“Oh, so you don’t like who I am? Am I just something that was on your bucket list? Go find the child you let be adopted: Check. Now I can die.”
One player storms off the court. Seething. Crying. Calling foul, foul, foul.
The other, stunned, realizes he is physically injured. His whole left side is becoming paralyzed, He takes a sip of water and coughs, choking. The upset is affecting his ability to swallow and speak.
The ref calls them back to the court. They coolly man-hug and spit out, “I love you. I’m sorry.” But their words are as hollow as wiffle balls.
They had hoped to play together for years. One, a fatherly coach. The other a star with possibilities to shine in new ways with the support of the new coach.
They leave the arena.
They might come back.
But the unexpected match has turned love into a game.
No one wins.