“I’ll try to use my racket the next time,” I say, glancing up at the group of bystanders who are watching from the top of the hill by the clubhouse.

They seem to be enjoying the match.

“I thought I’d get more bounce off my breastbone, but it’s got too much padding.”

Twenty minutes later the slaughter finally ends. I have won one game this set, a measure of pity that Amy couldn’t resist. My teeth clenched in a pleasant smile, I hold out my hand as I come to the net at the end. When my old girlfriend Rainey used to thrash me at Ping-Pong, at least it was behind closed doors. I tell myself public humiliation is good for the soul. Amy grins and pats my shoulder like you see the winners do on TV at Wimbledon.

“Nice workout.”

“For me,” I grumble. My shirt, underwear, and shorts are drenched with sweat.

“Next time we won’t play on court one,” I say, looking at our fans, all men.

“Would you and Jessie like to come over to dinner tonight?” she asks, shoving her racket into her bag.

Maybe that’s been my problem: I don’t have a fancy nylon bag.

“Sure,” I say, rubbing my chest.

“You and Jessie can finish what’s left of me.”

“Did I hurt you?” she asks innocently as we walk off the court.

“Just my pride,” I grumble, rumbling with the latch at the gate.

“You shouldn’t have given me that one game. I’m not a child about to

burst into tears because I lost.”

“Oh, you’re not?” Amy laughs, nudging me with her shoulder.

“The way your lip was stuck out at the end I wasn’t sure.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

“You’re so damn consistent.” “Just like Tommy Ting,” Amy says, guiding me around the fence as if I were blind as well as old.

“You make it all sound so fascinating. Maybe I can drive over to Bear Creek with you one of these days. I’d like to meet some of those people.