The 3rd game

I always arrive at the court a little early. These days, the games are indoors. In winter, I sit for a moment on the wooden bench by the entrance, loosening the laces of my snow-soaked boots before stepping onto the gym floor. The steady echo of footsteps and distant rallies greets me as I step inside. After years of living by schedules and appointments, I’ve come to appreciate the slower rhythm of retirement. I finish a cup of coffee, drive over and walk into the gym where the air is cool, carrying the faint scent of polished floors. Around 9 a.m., familiar faces appear one by one beneath the bright lights. After a brief warm-up, a familiar sound fills the space. Pop … pop … pop … The sharp, hollow tap of a plastic ball echoing off the walls. All my life, I tried to share sports with my husband, but there were few we could enjoy together. He skis well, skates with ease and plays tennis at a level I could never quite reach. I was always a step behind, trying to keep up. At some point, even playing together stopped feeling comfortable. Differences in ability have a quiet way of showi

Go to News Site