Bookends, it seems.  Two days ago I wrote “Fill The Room!”  This morning, my love of tennis took over.  I feel this surge of energy coming out .. blasting out!  And tennis analogies speak loud.

I’ve never really blasted.  Mostly I’ve embraced, which is lovely.  I’ve marvelled at the players who can build a point, and finish it off with a medium speed ball that’s just beyond the fully stretched opponent.  The sweetness of artistry, not the crudeness of blunt force.  

I love watching a player caress a “slice backhand”, hitting with a long left-to-right stroke so the ball skips sideways when it reaches the opponent.  It’s so hard to return.  Again, tennis as an art form.  Or consider the “drop shot”.  The other person is way at the back of the court and you cozy a soft shot that barely gets over the net.  The element of surprise is a formidable weapon.  Or … when the opponent rushes to the net, hit a long, looping ball over their head – a “lob”.  Properly applied, the ball lands just inside the baseline – virtually a sure winner.

Ahh … Picasso. 

But today I’m not in the mood for the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City.  I want Lebron James dunking the basketball over a member of the other team, slamming it down with his teeth gleaming.  I want the speed, the passion, the fierceness.

So today I smash the tennis ball!  Delicacy be damned.  “Hit the ball hard, Bruce!  Pick an empty corner of the court and give ‘er.  You can even yell if you want.”  

My home is sturdy, and verges on soundproof.  I now have two choices for raising the decibels.  Or I can do them both till the cows come home.  “Grrr!” some more.