Asfelt

I saw it as I drove around the corner from the back parking lot at the clinic at lunch time today. Fuzzy, bright yellow, and flat. Lying on the ground in stark contrast to the gray asphalt around it. Flattened by a passing car outside the adjacent car wash. Out of place. A bright dead thing far away from its rightful place and use.

I’d handled many just like it. I had a regular relationship with them all through high school and college. I would quite often toss them, and their bright white or orange cousins, high into the air and then swat them over a stretched net toward my opponent, hoping that his contact with the fuzzy object would not be quite as sure, swift, or powerful as mine.

Game. Set. Match.

A tennis ball.

Usually an object in the middle of a struggle, a game, a contest. Useful. Recognizable. Identifiable.

This one was dead. Flattened. Dirt-streaked. Out of place. Disconnected. Hollow.

It’s a new year.

Will you be in the game? Part of the struggle? Recognizable and identifiable? Useful, this year?

Or will you be flat, hollow, and out of your element?

You have three hundred sixty two days left to work that out.

Advantage you.

Your serve.

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