The other day, I found an old Wilson tennis racket in the garage. By old, I mean signed by 70-year-old Jimmy Connors.
It feels like it’s made out of melted horseshoes. I think if I tried to hit an overhead volley with this thing, my arm would fly off.
Why the heck do I still have this boyhood relic?
I don’t play tennis. I think if I were to try to play, my left leg — which has undergone five surgeries — would kick my own rump.