Grunts

“Do you actually play tennis?” You asked as he and I stood across from one another, shirtless and cursing, using the small chain link fence that divided the basketball courts as a net. Only moments before I’d savagely drained the dregs of my beer and thrown the can at my opponent, the empty vessel only reaching the small lake of rainwater that pooled at my end. “You’re mine, motherfucker!” I had screamed before walloping the Dollar Store tennis ball up, away and into the small playground that sat outside of the courts.

In retaliation he proceeded to hit what extra soggy green-spheres he had directly at me and as hard as he could. I returned the gesture and the game shifted into an advanced form of dodge ball. We’d evolved it to the point of using tools; all we needed next was fire.

With basketball in hand you patiently waited for my answer as I cracked open another beer. “Yes, we do actually play tennis.”