Tennis, Chris?

You bettya!

What a beautiful day for a game of tennis, to loosen the increasingly arthritic limbs after a night of charades and hearty sack.

Desively unmatched and undernourished, Chris Moore's energy, what is left, after the half hour of sweeping, is spent on foolish gamesmanship.

"Let me just sweep the court."

"I'll play, I..I'll step in for you Chris."

Chris Moore, hardly moved by the embarrassing defeat that swallow's most men's pride whole, returns to the land of nod.

Pride, is a hell of a thing in a man.

Thwack!

I got, I think I got something in my shoe.

Schomburg begins to remove layers. The effort is futile.

He too must return to sleep, to ensure his own extroversion later that night.

Waking at dusk, he feels even more alone.

Unable to shake the failure from his mind, he thinks of the tennis match. He wonders if he can identify with the other boys.

"Trees." "Yeah, trees are cool." "I think so."

I don't see what's so great, so what about trees.

Schomburg, on the brink of his own sanity, wanders into the wilderness, alone.

"This, this isn't so bad," he thinks to himself.

FLASHBACK: "What, what's over here."

FLASHFORWARD. Schomburg thinks of his long journey through the woods, the Thoreauvian landscape washes him clean. "This is, not bad at all."

The re-birth is soon forgotten. He tells Janine Chamberlain of his troubles, particularly with women. She is unresponsive and of little help.

He imagines the girls gossiping about him. Little does he know, their talk is not of his inadequacy in tennis."I heard he's like, big." "Bbbig?"

"Chriiisss! Get me another beer.........THE END...