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Last night I played tennis with Estanislao at the tennis center. We have been swatting the ball for four decades now. We started at the Border's Apartments. In those days we used to call the complex a poor man's country club. There were two courts, a swimming pool and lots of white chicks who had come south from the Midwest to work in the school district when the BISD had a teaching shortage. 

Those were the good ol' days, Matamoros our playground. We embarked on adventurous sojourns into the wee hours of the morning. Contemporary youth have no idea the education they have lost as a result of the chaos and violence in Mexico.

I have been hitting the ball better. I'm not trying to place winners. The majority end in unforced errors. I'm keeping the ball in play, whacking it hard and deep. (I guess you could say I'm making love to the ball.) I'm a 3.5 player capable of beating a 4.0. 

The conditions yesterday were perfect. There was a light gulf breeze that cooled the evening. In life we trudge throughout existences waiting for the moments. Estanislao and I shared a moment of perfect delight. 

In the world of cheap thrills, there's the hope that there might be a fuck during the diurnal trek through another forgetful day. It's nice to get the poison out of the system, even if your only option is your ex-wife.

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