Father vs. Son Competition
...Dad really wanted that point. For his courageous
effort, he only managed to dink the ball back over. I
put it away with authority. My point. Dad picked
himself up, tar covered pebbles falling from bloodied
impressions on his elbows and knees. The look on his
face—a resigned smile—told me something had changed
between us. That day, on the tennis court, I was his
father. But I was better prepared for my victory than
for Dad's defeat. I felt great and terrible,
triumphant and afraid...
