Nothing takes me back quite like the basket. It is a touchstone for many of us who play tennis: a sign that you are getting serious about raising your game and surely a hint that you are getting obsessed with raising your game.
Why else was I out there hitting serves all by my lonesome on an early weekday morning? Rain was imminent, even in southern California, but I wanted to honor the private promise I had made to keep working on that slice delivery in the deuce court.
Elevate the basket, otherwise known as a ball hopper. Convert the steel handles into legs and lock them in place. Reach in, grab a handful of raw material, exhale and hone the craft: extending the tossing arm; aiming — with no guarantees — for the corners or a notional opponent’s body.
I have the bug again, even deep into my fifties.