I’m the tennis ball at the bottom of an old man’s walker and frankly, I’m getting tired of this shit.

It was never supposed to be like this. I knew there would be no Wimbledons in my future once I had the misfortune of getting shipped to a Wisconsin Walmart. That was just the luck of the draw. I understand that. It’s part of life.

Like every tennis ball before me, though, I had hopes and dreams. At the very least, I thought I’d live out my days being volleyed over some net in an idyllic park by people who considered themselves moderate exercisers. That’s all I ever really wanted for myself.

Never in a million years did I think I’d spend my days being dragged through recreational centers for BINGO games or over restaurant floors at 4:00 PM for the early-bird dinner specials.

All that changed a few weeks ago when Irv and Barb, an elderly couple, walked down aisle seven with their bad intentions in mind. There, they immediately grabbed me and my buddy off the aisle, opened our packaging, and gave us each a firm squeeze, I assume to test our durability. It was humiliating.

Okay, boomer.

Then Irv, that disrespectful bastard, took out his pocket knife—who carries around a pocket knife these days?—and put an incision in me that hurts even now just thinking about it. He affixed us to his walker and paraded us down the very aisle we had recently sat upon, past our shocked comrades, eventually getting to the register a solid 30 minutes later.

We’ve been this way ever since.

Over the past few weeks, my colleague and I have been dragged over the dirty floors of a Cracker Barrel restaurant, multiple times, spent an inordinate amount of time in line at the Post Office complaining about the long line and dragged over numerous piles of duck shit at the local pond.

Hey Irv, if you need a walker, maybe stop walking so damn much? Just a thought.

Other tennis balls I see at the pond ask me, “Hey man, isn’t it nice to help prevent an old man from falling down?” I mean, not really. I was never meant to be in the medical supply field. I’m a fucking athlete.

What really rubs my fuzz is that they have actual tennis ball-like devices that are designed to attach to walkers. Like, their sole purpose is to do this for a living. These fake tennis balls are actually happy to help old people get around. You can find them in any medical supply store. Irv and Barb are so fucking cheap though, that they had to ruin my hopes and dreams in order to save a few bucks.

If I sound bitter, it’s because I am.

Last week, on a nice spring day, Irv had the audacity to walk me over to the local park so that he could sit on a bench and watch other people play tennis. There, I was forced to watch my colleagues live out the life I had so yearned to live out for myself. Can you fucking believe that shit? If I had hands, I would’ve reached up and slapped that contentment off his damn face.