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Got a Minute?

July 2, 2012 09:09 AM
tennis_ball_018_(2)Hey, how’s it going?

How do you think it’s going when you’ve just been smacked on the ass 1,181 times?
Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .

And that was only an hour’s worth of hitting. What do you want, anyway?
An interview.  You never talk to the media, I’ve noticed.  Why is that? 

Never been asked. Can’t blame reporters; I don’t have a whole lot to say.  I get the crap beat out of me, I get kicked, bitten, rejected.  My fuzz goes south, my bounce loses jounce. Eventually I’m dead as the Roman Empire. At that point I get tossed in a cardboard box in the garage with a bunch of 10-year-old Consumer Reports. Not much of a story.

Ever wish you were white, as in times past?

No, but I wish I were Sharapova’s second ball, as she prepares to serve.

Then you don’t mind being yellow?

How can I be yellow when I don’t have any guts?

You know, you’re pretty quick with the returns. Especially for someone . . .

Who’s on the ball?

All right, all right, but why all the anger?

You’d be testy too if someone regularly used you in a dunking booth.  Or sliced you open with a sharp knife just for a look-see.  Or jammed you on the legs of grandpa’s walker.

I have to admit that does sound miserable.

You don’t know the third of it. I’m one of triplets. The three of us came into this world together, then we got separated.  I heard one of my siblings is mixed up with a bunch of Dunlop 2s. Breaks your heart.
Do you think much about retirement? What you’ll do after tennis?

Life is hard and then you’re a fetch toy for a Sussex spaniel named “Binky.” 

Well, you could wind up being autographed and then blasted high into the stadium at the U.S. Open. Wouldn’t that be something?

Hah! Those big tournaments are all alike. The winners accept surfboard-size checks and then monotonously thank everyone in the joint but us. Hello? Were you playing with gumballs?

Do you mind telling me your favorite players? 

Certainly not Serena Williams. After what she said to that line judge, I can’t think of her without gagging. And not Novak Djokovic, either.  Every few minutes the guy drops one of us on our head. Does that twelve to 15 times without stopping. You think he gives a fig?

I suspect you have an opinion about all the grunting and shrieking on the courts.

Last time I checked, I weighed slightly more than two ounces. Do you howl every time you stick a spoonful of Cocoa Krispies in your pie hole?

Is there anyone out there who plays tennis the way a Penn 3 prefers it be played?
That would be you.

Me? Whatever for?

Because lots of times you whiff, you miss completely.

You’re right, why is that? 
Don’t look at me. No, wait, do.

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