Lets the stroty begins

Team sports, I decide, are you from.

My father does not mind that I football because he thinks it's good for my footwork on the tennis court. But recently when I play soccer a strained muscle in my leg and so I can not play tennis noon. My father does not like. He looks at my leg, then at me as if I've hurt myself on purpose. But an injury is an injury. Even he can not argue with my body. He stamping his foot out of the house for work.

Moments later my mom looks at my calendar and see that I have a football game that afternoon. What do we do? she asks.

The team counts on me, I say.

She sighs. How do you feel?

I think I can play.

Okay. But dress.

Do you think Pops angry?

You know dad. He has no reason need to be angry.

She drives me to the game and turn me off. After a few times I ran around the field, my leg feels good. Surprisingly well. I dive between the defenders, easy, elegant, call for the ball, laugh with my teammates. We are working towards a common goal. We do this together. This feels good, it feels good. This feels like me.

Suddenly I look up and see my father. He stands at the edge of the parking lot, watching the football. He says something to the coach. Now he yells at the coach. The coach waving at me. Agassi! Off the field!

I run off the field.

Get in the car, my father says. And pull your football clothes.

I run to the car and see my tennis clothes in the backseat. I pull them on and walk up to my father. I give him my soccer clothes. He walks over to the coach and throws the football clothes against his chest.

As we drive home, my father says, without looking at me: This is the last time you played football.

I beg him for a second chance. I tell my dad that I do not like being alone on the tennis court to be huge. Tennis is lonely, I tell him. You can never hide if something goes wrong. No dugout, no sideline, not a neutral corner. You're on your own there, naked.

He cried really hard: You're a tennis player! You are number one in the world! You are a lot of money. That is the plan and that's it.

That was the plan for Rita, and Tami Philly, but if it never came. Rita rebelled. Tami was not better. Philly had no killer instinct. My father always says that about Philly. He says to me, to Mom, even from Philly, right in his face. Philly just gets his shoulders and proving once again that he has no killer instinct.

But my dad says far worse things against Philly.

You're a born loser, he says.