Forcing a Deuce

Sometimes having a boyfriend is like having a puppy. You’ve got to make sure he’s fed. You’ve got to reinforce positive behavior w/ treats. And you’ve got to find some way to make sure he gets that energy out. 

Working a desk job isn’t doing any favors for Brent’s bounding energy. Not that he’s a five-year old after eating a bag of pixie sticks, but sometimes his energy levels are unusually high for a late-twenties dude who loves Whoppers as much as he does (the sandwich, not the candy; for unexplainable reasons, B does't have a sweet tooth). When I see the video games come out, I know the restlessness has begun. Soon after comes the standing over me while I’m reading or on my computer. Then the roundabout way of asking to go play fetch basketball.

I thought I had it made when Brent wanted to start playing tennis w/ me. After I told him I played in college, he just had to see me on the courts. Even though I insisted it was a D3 school and explained that it wasn’t commitment to the game that had me wearing my skirt out Friday night; it was just brilliant, since the built-in spandex held an extra beer and I could pass out and wake up the next morning ready to roll. 

The first few matches were carefree and fun, you know, back when we were in the honeymoon stage. Then it escalated to some playful trash talking. Now when we’re out there it’s a freaking Agassi Sampras match. I try to make every shot a winner; 99% fly into the net, the other 1% narrowly misses Brent’s face and he gives me a look that would frighten the Williams sisters. 

We’re masochists though; we just can’t get enough (this is not true: I try telling Brent that it’s not awesome for our relationship when we’re screaming at each other about whether or not the serve was in). So we were out there Sunday, since my puppy needed some fresh air and I had just returned from a run, and was obviously dying to go back outside and run around some more.

We found a fresh new set of courts to use, walking distance from our house, complete w/ a Port-a-potty on site that smelled just fabulous in that August sunshine, and a drug deal that I’m convinced went awry (who’s idling outside a park at 10am on a Sunday morning, then just takes off w/ screeching tires? Now that I think about it, sounds more like a pedophile ring…). With a scene like that, you know you’re in for some great tennis. “Some” being the operative word. I didn’t want to play at all, and Brent wanted to play a full match, so we called it quits after one set. Compromise: ensuring both parties don’t get what they want.

There was some fun had, though (besides winning, which was the most fun). We had just got to deuce on one of the points and Brent was sour that when he’s down in the game, he can’t make a comeback, but when I’m down, I can still rally to deuce.

“You always force a deuce,” he said to me from across the court. At which point I about died laughing. Oh babe, you know me so well.

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