Working With The Wawrinkan Waterfall
Rotorded supplicant pushes through the creepers. Above the dense green canopy of treetops a cloud of white mist. And the roar, the throaty roar, and there it is, the 600-foot drop of Wawrinka Falls.
The cold mist clings to his face and bare chest as he slips off his backpack and fumbles it open to extract his racket.
He has brought only ten tennis balls, five each in the two front pockets of his navy blue shorts, so he'll have to make these baseball pitch style kick serves very good.
But how will he know how they bounce? He won't. Not if they land in water. Or if they only reach the boulders and rubble at the bottom of the abyss, which he can not make out clearly through the mist anyway.
Strange, unpredictable bounces then. Kind of defeats the entire purpose of the exercise. One won't be able to tell anything.
He perches on the edge of the cliff and squeezes the first ball in his left hand.
He tosses with the liquidity of his slow gravity-assisted down-and-up. As the high racket tip barely topples over he settles down on his rear leg, fires his hips, stops them abruptly to send his chest up with the racket plunging and curling throughout.
But he has slipped. And tumbled over...
Note: Old guys who have played tennis for a long time let you know if you have done something good. If you didn't do good, they rarely say anything and just take the point.
Rotorded supplicant pushes through the creepers. Above the dense green canopy of treetops a cloud of white mist. And the roar, the throaty roar, and there it is, the 600-foot drop of Wawrinka Falls.
The cold mist clings to his face and bare chest as he slips off his backpack and fumbles it open to extract his racket.
He has brought only ten tennis balls, five each in the two front pockets of his navy blue shorts, so he'll have to make these baseball pitch style kick serves very good.
But how will he know how they bounce? He won't. Not if they land in water. Or if they only reach the boulders and rubble at the bottom of the abyss, which he can not make out clearly through the mist anyway.
Strange, unpredictable bounces then. Kind of defeats the entire purpose of the exercise. One won't be able to tell anything.
He perches on the edge of the cliff and squeezes the first ball in his left hand.
He tosses with the liquidity of his slow gravity-assisted down-and-up. As the high racket tip barely topples over he settles down on his rear leg, fires his hips, stops them abruptly to send his chest up with the racket plunging and curling throughout.
But he has slipped. And tumbled over...
Note: Old guys who have played tennis for a long time let you know if you have done something good. If you didn't do good, they rarely say anything and just take the point.
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