Things I Miss About Racquetball

Gym bags and locker keys strewn in the hallway on the honor system.

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.

Shaking hands with every opponent, whether I liked them or not, before and after each match.

“Kill for show, pass for dough.”

Stopping in mid-swing and saying, “Whoa—hinder.”

Calling a timeout by making a T with my hand and the racquet.

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.

Playing “just one more game” with sore feet.

“Bad warm-up, good match.”

Being able to practice alone.

Supreme Athletic Club in San Carlos, “where everybody knows your name.”

Those spectacular ring-shaped bruises.

Taking a long, long drink from the water fountain.