I am in the FoCo on a weekish long vacation before the start of the hell, wrath and fury that is the legislative session. I had a rude awakening on my first full day back here. My sister and I went to the club (gym, for my Northeast readers) and played some raquetball.
This is a typical routine for us, and it usually goes like this: We play, my sister sometimes scores in the double digits, but in the end I sweep the best of three series easily.
Well, turns out that my little sister has been practicing the ol' ballgame and she got pretty damn good. She has (umm, had) only beaten me in a series once before. Sure, every now and then I will lose a game to her, but a series, that was a once in a lifetime event. And I remember that the time she did beat me, I was lazy, uninterested and she basically ambushed me.
Well, mark this date down: December 26, 2009. I got a raquetball beatdown. An ol' fashioned ass-whooping. I am sure the fathers and mothers out there reading this can relate. It felt like that first time that a son or daughter beat you at something, whether it be chess, or basketball, or just plain physically beat you up.
So my little sister finally grew up (or I grew old). We played again yesterday afternoon, a best of 5 this time, and yes, although I ultimately prevailed, it was only after a furious rally from 2-1 games down. I am no longer the scary raquetballer that bullied my sister and built my own confidence at her expense. I am now running around a raquetball court like a moron chasing a little black ball - all this at the hands of a person that is barely over 4 feet tall.