Bright beams blind me as I wake up. Blink, blink, blink. Pain registers. And I remember.

Breathe. I command my brain to commit to these actions as it struggles with more basic ones. I feel myself slipping. I grimace, then jerk my head left searching for his face. Had he noticed? No, he had not, I confirmed. Towards the back of the small crowd, I spot him hooded in a black jacket near the open gate. I start to smile. Wait- I thought he was wearing his favorite navy blue jacket? No, my brain must fried by now; I shake away the thought and turn my focus back to the match.

Bright beams blind me as I line up. Bounce, bounce, bounce. No more stalling; it’s now or never. The ball is tossed up. For a split second, I lose sight of the fuzzy yellow ball in the blurry haze of white on black. Panic registers, followed quickly by relief and accomplishment as my body contorts itself into practiced fluid motions, rehearsed almost daily since the age of ten to ensure optimal pace, power, and placement of the fuzzy yellow ball that has ruled my life since that time. My racket connects to the ball with a thundering CRACK. Crack? is the only half thought I am able to form before the bullet penetrates my ribcage.