The curious little flat handles on the doors.
The spongy spring of the ball on the racquet strings.
The three-beat rhythm of a ceiling ball.
“Kill for show, pass for dough.”
Stopping in mid-swing and saying, “Whoa—hinder.”
Wrapping my toes with adhesive tape before a match.
Being literally soaked with sweat.
Trophies.
Free Gatorade at the tournaments.
League standing sheets thumbtacked to the bulletin boards.
Friendly trash talk.
My friend Pedro saying, “Your face is as red as a radish.”
Figuring out my opponent’s weakness and then pounding on it mercilessly.
“Bad warm-up, good match.”
Being able to practice alone.
Those spectacular ring-shaped bruises.
Taking a long, long drink from the water fountain.
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