A quiet morning on the deck, coffee, life, the boys have pivoted towards the tennis courts early this morning, and I am alone with the cats and the birds who are squawking at the cats. Always this animosity brewing in the air: you felines are wingless idiots, you birds are slower than my paws. And, on and on it goes until a cat has a mouth full of feathers, and bird troops are called in to make my deck sitting a living hell. Okay, it's really not that bad here, but Milton always knew that it was easier to write about contention and Satan rather than heaven and Jesus. It's fun.
Tennis has become a focus here due to the amazing development that my son signed up for Special Olympics, on his own accord. I think a university student who benevolently came for one buddy session in order to fulfill his fraternity orders of community service suggested that he do so. Well, much can come out of so frivolous an appearance. The next day son mentioned playing basketball in this league.
Many years ago, he had vowed that he would never participate in anything with the name "special" in front of it. Yet, at the courts, the tall, heavy boys do not see him. My son fizzles and storms. His internal barometer skyrockets. He realizes this is his last chance to play organized basketball. And, then we found out that tennis season is happening now.
We've been to the courts twice. He hates that I'm an athletic mom who occasionally has some good hits, although I can never control them enough to win a game. We've been working on self-regulation tactics when we're frustrated that the green stupid ball stupidly hits the net or avoids all lines.
So, Dad is out there this morning before the heat and humidity hits. I bet the birds are singing in all the trees around the Fairview courts. I bet the guys are connecting net to fuzz. I bet that the complexity of life will be focused upon the simple desire to hit the ball. I hope he whacks in a regulated kind of rhythm to his heart's content. Amen.