If you are caught engaging in coitus during a club meeting, the excuse “but I was just pinging her pong” is far from adequate.
Give me Rafael Nadal. I would let Rafa bagelize me as compared to you-know-who. Is that too much for a poor, first-time U.S. Open qualifier to ask?
Well, there was a court in my future, just not the one I had in mind.
At the very least, I thought I’d live out my days being volleyed over some net in a park by people who considered themselves moderate exercisers.
Dad’s old tennis sneakers: You dated him in college when he wore these sneakers and you seemed to like them just fine back then.
"That ball was on the line! And the whole question of borders comes from an outmoded hermeneutic treating the nation-state as a discreet actor."
"You fielded eighteen promposals before February. That's a county record."
Like Andre Agassi’s mullet, I shall never be replicated. Like Stan Smith’s Stan Smiths, I am immortal.
One time I was forced to watch my snail body get boiled, made into a ceviche soup, and served to a family of blondes on their backyard tennis court.
Who gets to determine when a novel starts and ends in this postmodern age that you would understand if you had read the first six pages too.
Sometimes two people stop talking to each other, and there isn't even a big argument at the end. They just avoid each other, forever.