Las Vegas Country Club

I participate in a tournament in Las Vegas Country Club for a chance to go to the state championship. My opponent is a guy named Roddy Parks. The first thing I noticed about him is that he has a unique father. Mr. Parks is wearing a ring with an ant in amber solidified. Before the game begins, I ask him about it.

You know Andre, when the world ends in a nuclear disaster, only the ants survive. So I want my soul in an ant arrives.

Roddy is thirteen, two years older than me. He is big for his age and has a military stekelkop. But it seems like I can handle him. Immediately I see flaws in his game. But some way he knows who to compensate, and he wins the first set.

I talk to myself, saying I must attack, more needs to run. I take the second set.
I practice more pressure,'m smarter, faster. The finish line is in sight. Roddy is mine, he can shake it. What is true for name, Roddy? But I lose a few points now and Roddy puts his arms in the air. He has won the third set, 7-5, and the match. I look at the stands, my father. He has beaten his gaze, is concerned. Not angry, but concerned. I am also concerned, but also damned angry, and sick of self-hatred. I wish I ant in Mr. Parks' ring was.

I make snide remarks to myself while I wrap my tennis bag. From nowhere appears a boy who interrupts my thoughts furious.

Hey, he says, do not worry. It just was not your day.

I look at. The boy is one year older than me, a head taller, and looks in a way that I do not like. There's something about his face. His nose and mouth are not in a straight line. And he wears a shirt with a gay man that is playing polo? I want nothing to do with him.

Who the hell are you? I ask.

Perry Rogers.

I turn back to my tennis bag.

He does not understand the hint. He goes on about it just not my day, that I am better than Roddy, that I will defeat the next time, and so on. He tries to be nice, I guess, but he acts like a know, like a Bjorn Borg Jr. and so I stand up and try to look cheerful. The last thing I need to have his comforting words that are pointless than a consolation prize, especially when those words come from a kid with a man playing polo on his chest. I wave my tennis bag over my shoulder and ask: What the hell do you know about tennis?

I feel guilty later. I did not mean to be. I hear that he plays tennis, that he is the same tournament. I hear that he has a crush on my sister Tami, especially so of course he talked to me. In order to get closer to Tami.