I was paired with Kimberly’s husband. I was counting on his innate athleticism (he runs and plays tennis) to at least get us through the first round. Finn and Drew were having none of it, though, and beat us before I was completely sure the game had started. Maybe I should have worn my reading glasses to better track that tiny ball.
Although her husband’s tennis skills weren’t helpful, Kimberly is even better and plays at level AA1. I don’t understand the ranking system, but in practical terms this means she must play with the tennis pro or someone who was on the tour in order to find decent competition. And she’s all about competition.
I’m thinking it was her insane competitive drive that carried her and the Voice of Reason’s son through to the finals against Finn and Drew. It was a ball-buster, and Drew was visibly nervous that he would let Finn down.
It was best 2 out of 3, and after the first game Finn and Drew did a few exercises to keep their wrists supple.
Finn was encouraging to Drew and put on a fabulous big brother act: “Way to save the goal, Drew. Good defense. Dude, that point was all you.”
It was sweet to watch, but his act was diluted when Finn them turned around and kicked Porter in the shins, saying, “Quit crowding me! You’re always in my way!” When I counseled him on his attitude toward Porter, he said, “I’ll be his brother, but I won’t be his friend if he keeps acting like such a baby all the time.” He has a point. Porter is socially immature, but the solution is not a kick in the scrotum, as far as I’ve read.
This morning the boys were headed to the beach.
“Have you buttered the boys?” I asked Bill, who was loading his backpack with his newly purchased kite, another of his favorite beach activities. He really should have been a camp counselor.
“No, but if it’s eating you, butter them yourself,” he said.
“It’s not eating at me,” I said, and I let them go.
Our Memphis friend shook his head at the whole exchange. “I know a bunch of Yankees who’d need some serious translation for that.”
I’m traveling with people, including my husband, who “don’t get” blogs. Bill insists I’m living in Second Life, although where he picked up that term I don’t know. He also says that writing on a blog is like putting earrings on a pig. You can call it what you want, but it’s not “real” writing, he says. He’s no different from Richard Schickel in this regard.
They’re both wrong, of course. Why should the quality of the writing be based on whether it’s published in print or on the internet?
A look back in My Tiny Kingdom: Schickel Insults Blogs; Melee Ensues