I played racquetball with my daughter and her boyfriend yesterday. Both are in their teens, and both are considerably younger than the two people with whom I usually play racquetball. (The fact that they also are considerably younger than I am isn’t lost on me, either.)
Anyway, with their shiny new bodies, they were able to dive, pivot and rotate in ways I would never attempt. At one point, my daughter skidded across the floor, the rubber handle from her racket leaving a long black gash across the floor.
I won’t — and can’t — play that way. Not and get up for work the next day. Not and get up at all the next day. My strategy was to play smarter, not harder, to select where to place my shots, to return serves to where they weren’t, and to use their own speed against them by hitting the ball softly.
And you know what? It worked. I won all three games we played.
The real victory, though, came in crawling out of bed this morning without the benefit of Ben Gay. That’s the sign of a real champion.