We were in Winston-Salem for a new tournament at a newly-built condo resort. Michael was seeded second, his highest seeding ever at an important event. And it was another Friday night . . . he had night practice scheduled; I had errands to run, laundry to see to. Something had to break here. Standing in front of the mirror in our room, I pulled my logo’ed T-shirt (we were all in the Italian camp) off over my head with one hand and stared at myself, the clutter of the room—a strew of towels, rackets, shopping bags—reflected back at me. The phone rang for the third time and for the third time I did not answer it. My bare arms and midriff were still trim and shapely, still free of brands, no legal obligations tattooed there. No chains or jewelry, no chains of love or money.
Throwing on a thick knit…
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