Honor isn't as simple as In or Out
On the main court, Nicholas* traded forehands with his opponent, whose high loops the freezing April gusts pushed unpredictably around the court. Eventually, if Nick could feel his hands and keep his discipline during the long rallies, he would whip those hands through—as quickly as Delaware had ever seen—and pummel a winner that the pasty boy across the net couldn’t touch. It was Greek god against high school nerd, almost literally. Nick’s father and uncle shouted in Greek illegal instructions from behind the fence to our potential state champion, and the public school’s diminutive top player played a soft game and wore Abdul-Jabbar-esque goggles.
I walked over from the adjacent courts where our two doubles teams were stampeding over more tennis fodder. My first year as head coach of my alma mater was starting well. This would be our third team win in as many contests.
John looked on in his windbreaker and sunglasses with his arms folded across his chest. Muscular and lean at forty, a veteran coach, he’d taken up a post behind Nick but far from his entourage of Mediterranean rowdies. “Perfect for Nick to play,” he said, referring to Goggles across the net, without diverting his attention from the point unfolding. “Especially this early in the season.”
“Building patience,” I said.
