I reserved the court for Tuesday night so that I could offer a rematch to my opponent from the other night. He declined stating that he had recently cut his palm and was out of action for awhile. Convenient, right? So, later I asked my roomie if he wanted to get schooled in the game. He tells me that he has only played once before but hitting it around some sounded like fun. Fun? Yeah, right.
I will give him credit for getting out there and swatting blindly at the ball, but by the third (of six) games he has slammed into the walls so many times he is literally stunning himself from the impacts. I probably should have kept the ball off the side walls and back corners more, but it was too much fun watching the show. He was laughing (mostly) so I didn't feel too bad about the beat down or my enjoyment of it. By game five he has a hurt back, crick in the neck, scrape from an ill-advised dive, slightly sprained ankle, and numerous bruises-to-be. And yet he keeps saying "one more game". I hadn't been giving him lollipop shots to this point, but he did accuse me of taking it easy on him so game five and six showcased a dozen laser-like pinpoint three-inches-off-the-front-wall kill shots. That's why they used to call me the Assassin. Well, I called myself that once, but it still counts. It was ugly, but we had fun and sweated a lot. Good times.
15-1, 15-2, 15-7, 15-3, 15-5, 15-2
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