imitates my swing.

Embarrassed by how ridiculous I must look, I nod and hand her the water bottle, noticing how supple her legs are under her blue tennis skirt. I wonder if she knows how sexy she looks. If she is wearing one of those bras that mash her breasts down, I can’t tell it. Her white top swells out so nicely that it had the local pro in the clubhouse fumbling for her change for thirty seconds.

Unlike almost every other woman I’ve ever played against, Amy can volley at the net. When I saw how well she hit from the baseline, I began hitting short and making her come in. No dice. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. Overheads, backhand volleys, even drop shots, her game is as complete as mine is limited. I can get some pace on a forehand if I have time to set up, but Amy won’t let me do it.

When I overplay the left side of the court, she runs me to death. If she controlled the rest of our relationship the way she does on the tennis court, all I’d need is Jessie’s dog collar.

“At my age,” I crack, “they refuse to bend more than a couple of times a day.”

She sips at the water and sternly shakes her head.

“You could get in shape easy. There’re several guys out here a lot older than you who can play all day.”

Older than me? They must be playing in wheelchairs.

Properly motivated, I stand up and head out to the north end of the court. I could get in shape.

But it wouldn’t be easy.

“Let’s get this beating going,” I yell enthusiastically.

“Time’s a-wasting!”

As if in self-defense, early in the set, she drills the ball squarely into my chest the one time I am so foolish as to approach the net. At least she didn’t blind me.

“Sorry,” she says, her voice concerned.

“I wasn’t aiming at you.”

Unhappily, I think, I’m not aiming at you either.

But it is the innocent who sometimes get hit.