He looked like one of the men who stood by the side of the road at intersections, holding up a sign saying they were hungry and homeless, had babies or AIDS, would work for food.

Luther came by bus with no suitcase, no gymīag, no nothing. There was a man named Luther who had started following the girls from tournament to tournament last year, arriving in Sacramento or Palo Alto or Berkeley or Stockton, wherever that week's tournament was. The boys were stronger, heavier, more aggressive, and most of the men preferred to watch them play - except for the girls' fathers, sometimes their coaches, and Luther. For the most part, however, the girls watched the boys play but theīoys rarely watched the girls. The girls would have loved to be watched by boys. The parents - tight-faced, vigorous, vibrating - sat in silences so grave and tense that except for the rampant whiteness and signs of wealth, they might have been waiting for disappeared children inĮach tournament was played by dozens of these tiny pros, all watching one another play, all aware of each other's rank and seed. Their parents sat in groups holding their children's knapsacks and sweats, unconsciously dandling them in The kids on this circuit could go to any club in the country, probably the world, and in simply rallying with one another draw a small crowd. Siamese blue eyes steely, impassive, twenty bullets in a row, over the net and in, frowning almost imperceptibly if she missed. Pros, and by members of the clubs at which they played - the weekend duffers who'd look at Rosie Ferguson, thirteen years old and seventy wiry pounds, hitting the ball as hard as almost any man they knew, thick black curls whipping, Cocky and devoted, they loved to be watched by almost everyone but their parents, loved to be watched by other kids, by their pros, by the other kids'

Good, ranked number one in the girls fourteen-and-under doubles in northern California. They were brown as berries, with feet as white as the moon the sock lines at their ankles were as sharply drawn as saddle shoes. Time, hanging out, playing Ping-Pong and endless games of cards. Their days were spent honing their games in lessons and practice, playing in tournaments, and in between matches, watching each other compete, killing Into their bloomers they tucked an extra tennis ball to extract when it was needed,Īs with sleight of hand, like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, a quarter from behind an ear. They wore tiny dresses and skirts so short that their frilly satin tennis bloomers showed.

Rosie and her friends were blooming like spring, budding, lithe, agile as cats.

Crooked Little Heart by Anne Lamott