Sunday afternoon

The deep blue sky could swallow everything, I think. You could forget that it's fall on a day like this -- warmth on your skin, rich green trees, people running and strolling and laughing outside.

A ball bounces by.

I would like to hit you out of my head, but my swings send the lime green ball soaring in a high arch that ends in a graceful bounce out of bounds. I would like to participate in a smooth volley where the ball always find the center of the racket and crisply darts back over.

I haven't played tennis since Debbie Lutjen's gym class at age 15, where my prorities were having Jeff, the cute one, as my doubles partner (I succeeded) and making sarcastic comments to Kelsey about our "written exams" (also successful).

It's just leisure, after all, but despite the excuse of my six-year drought, I am quickly frustrated. Well, hell, that backhand shouldn't have fired the ball into the fence.

We aren't moving much. Balls sail over our heads and we take up the fruitless task of jumping as high as we can to send them back. We miss every time. Only after my body realizes that it's in the sunlight do I begin to sweat.

We laugh and I do an occasional handstand. What matters most right now is that I am not inside and thinking about being outside. That I am not tempted to fall into old habits, but to try to forge new paths that perhaps I'll stray down again on an afternoon like this.

"You can get a cheap racket at Wal-Mart," my partner says supportively.

Maybe I will, I think. I don't plan to impress anyone. But perhaps a racket would be good to have, in case I feel inspired one day to hit my returns into the net and duck from serves coming at my face.

No, nobody would be impressed by that.

We're not keeping score. It doesn't really matter, does it?