Those who can’t, teach. God how I hate that expression. Mainly because, for me anyway, it painfully holds true. Painful, that is, as in a stab to the heart, a shattering of a soul, or an inflammation of the forearm muscles—yes, mainly that last one: tennis elbow, or so it’s generally called. Though, for what it’s worth, I might’ve just as well been stabbed in the heart or had my soul shattered. In fact, that’s exactly what it felt like.
Well, back then, at any rate.
Now it’s just a dull throb, an ache at the periphery. Almost forgotten. Almost but not quite.
See, we’d made it all the way to Wimbledon, me and John, as doubles partners. That and, well, partners partners—in private, behind closed doors, that is to say. Too bad our lives were anything but. Because when you make it to Wimble
