Days like this I love tennis

[Mainsacross]

I come home after a two hour hit with a kid who's teaching me to get to net as much as I can with my limited game. I can't hit volleys to save my life but I charge the net repeatedly like a baby dolphin looking for a plastic bag to tangle with. I hit maybe one successful volley winner after twenty attempts. What the hell am I doing playing this style of tennis? It's dead. I am fruitlessly trying to play the game of once deadly ghosts without any of the skills that time forgot to pass on. Turn on the television and a crazy grizzled German is tilting at the bloody windmills on his trusty Rosinante and winning somehow. Diving like Sir. Boris Becker of the Broom Closet Hapsburgs, lunging at the ball dancing at his feet like that Aussie rapscallion Rafter, closing the net like that Swedish hare, Sir. Edberg the linesman killer, and beating the current grand wizard of baseline dwelling ogres, Sir. Andy Mire-ay. The court is asizzle with winners that glide inches of the surface. Evil topspin magic, which makes it impossible for honest knights to joust fairly, is undone by the skimming, arrow-straight slice and dice, and flat penetrative hitting of yore. The clock gets turned back to the golden age of tennis for three and a half hours.

An hour later, the grandest of all knights, rides in on a hobbled knee and questionable back, and wins a match I had no hope for. Winners that defy belief are struck nonchalantly. Break points are actually converted instead of being tantalizingly lost to heartbroken, hypothetical win threads on this forum. I go to sleep at 4 AM pinching myself. Days like this I just love tennis.

 

[gogo]

I come home after a two hour hit with a kid who's teaching me to get to net as much as I can with my limited game. I can't hit volleys to save my life but I charge the net repeatedly like a baby dolphin looking for a plastic bag to tangle with. I hit maybe one successful volley winner after twenty attempts. What the hell am I doing playing this style of tennis? It's dead. I am fruitlessly trying to play the game of once deadly ghosts without any of the skills that time forgot to pass on. Turn on the television and a crazy grizzled German is tilting at the bloody windmills on his trusty Rosinante and winning somehow. Diving like Sir. Boris Becker of the Broom Closet Hapsburgs, lunging at the ball dancing at his feet like that Aussie rapscallion Rafter, closing the net like that Swedish hare, Sir. Edberg the linesman killer, and beating the current grand wizard of baseline dwelling ogres, Sir. Andy Mire-ay. The court is asizzle with winners that glide inches of the surface. Evil topspin magic, which makes it impossible for honest knights to joust fairly, is undone by the skimming, arrow-straight slice and dice, and flat penetrative hitting of yore. The clock gets turned back to the golden age of tennis for three and a half hours.

An hour later, the grandest of all knights, rides in on a hobbled knee and questionable back, and wins a match I had no hope for. Winners that defy belief are struck nonchalantly. Break points are actually converted instead of being tantalizingly lost to heartbroken, hypothetical win threads on this forum. I go to sleep at 4 AM pinching myself. Days like this I just love tennis.

Ahhhh...so wonderful. That's why I am so surprised when people take tennis too seriously. So glad you enjoyed yourself!!

 

[stringertom]

I come home after a two hour hit with a kid who's teaching me to get to net as much as I can with my limited game. I can't hit volleys to save my life but I charge the net repeatedly like a baby dolphin looking for a plastic bag to tangle with. I hit maybe one successful volley winner after twenty attempts. What the hell am I doing playing this style of tennis? It's dead. I am fruitlessly trying to play the game of once deadly ghosts without any of the skills that time forgot to pass on. Turn on the television and a crazy grizzled German is tilting at the bloody windmills on his trusty Rosinante and winning somehow. Diving like Sir. Boris Becker of the Broom Closet Hapsburgs, lunging at the ball dancing at his feet like that Aussie rapscallion Rafter, closing the net like that Swedish hare, Sir. Edberg the linesman killer, and beating the current grand wizard of baseline dwelling ogres, Sir. Andy Mire-ay. The court is asizzle with winners that glide inches of the surface. Evil topspin magic, which makes it impossible for honest knights to joust fairly, is undone by the skimming, arrow-straight slice and dice, and flat penetrative hitting of yore. The clock gets turned back to the golden age of tennis for three and a half hours.

An hour later, the grandest of all knights, rides in on a hobbled knee and questionable back, and wins a match I had no hope for. Winners that defy belief are struck nonchalantly. Break points are actually converted instead of being tantalizingly lost to heartbroken, hypothetical win threads on this forum. I go to sleep at 4 AM pinching myself. Days like this I just love tennis.

All good to great except the Edberg linesman reference. I'm sure Stefan will always regret the unfortunate accident. Credit to him for not allowing it to derail his career.

 

[Mainsacross]

All good to great except the Edberg linesman reference. I'm sure Stefan will always regret the unfortunate accident. Credit to him for not allowing it to derail his career.

I maintain that the linesman called too many of his serves out when Edberg pegged him in the babymaker. Don't be fooled by the charm, Stefan is a deadly assassin.

 

[PeteD]

All good to great except the Edberg linesman reference. I'm sure Stefan will always regret the unfortunate accident. Credit to him for not allowing it to derail his career.

The Court ultimately exonerated USTA/Edberg, finding the impact of the ball was not the proximate cause of the linesman's death.
From the court case:
"In light of the severity of the decedent's chronic cardiovascular disease, a condition well known to him in light of his heart attack at age 40 and subsequent stroke, we can only view his decision to participate in the sports arena, albeit as a referee but nonetheless in the line of fire of speeding tennis balls, as an assumption of the further risk of aggravation of his delicate medical condition. The eyewitness testimony was consistent with the opinion of appellant's expert that the decedent suffered a stroke upon being hit by the ball."

 

[Sentinel]

An hour later, the grandest of all knights, rides in on a hobbled knee and questionable back, and wins a match I had no hope for. Winners that defy belief are struck nonchalantly. Break points are actually converted instead of being tantalizingly lost to heartbroken, hypothetical win threads on this forum. I go to sleep at 4 AM pinching myself. Days like this I just love tennis.

+1.
Hopefully the grandets of all knights will keep this going till Sunday night.

 

[StanTheMan]

What a beautiful thread, mate