I have an immense collection of tennis balls. I had misplaced them a couple of years ago and now my great uncle, fine man that he is, has returned them to me. All covered in the same wiry green hairs. Some have black marks from being beaten on the court, though they remain neon. I have thousands.
So my uncle believes. In reality, I am a terrible tennis player. I used to play when I was in sixth grade, but the best thing that came from that was my all white K-Swiss sneakers I wore throughout Middle School.
Don’t play tennis in the rain. And when you invest in a nice pair of tennis shoes with light soles, make sure that they are fashionable enough to wear off the tennis court. Tennis is a very difficult game, more athletic than golf, although in golf you can watch the trees bounce in the wind.
I dreamed (which is the proper way to spell it, rather than the British version, dreamt, the version I learned when younger because my mother is Irish) that I went to a club filled with many people, many women. At eleven o’ clock all of the people stopped to watch the latest TV show and I woke up before it ended.
Today I seek a book of classic literature, poetry, from the late Kenneth Koch, my favorite poet of the second half of the 20th century.