A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again Read Online Free PDF

and glow as the daylight just plain went out
     in the sky overhead. Neither of us had noticed that there’d been no wind blowing the familiar grit into our eyes for several
     minutes—a bad sign. There was no siren. Later they said the C.D. alert network had been out of order. This was June 6, 1978.
     The air temperature dropped so fast you could feel your hairs rise. There was no thunder and no air stirred. I could not tell
     you why we kept hitting. Neither of us said anything. There was no siren. It was high noon; there was nobody else on the courts.
     The riding mower out over east at the Softball field was still going back and forth. There were no depressions except a saprogenic
     ditch along the field of new corn just west. What could we have done? The air always smells of mowed grass before a bad storm.
     I think we thought it would rain at worst and that we’d play till it rained and then go sit in Antitoi’s parents’ station
     wagon. I do remember a mental obscenity—I had gut strings in my rackets, strings everybody with a high sectional ranking got
     free for letting the Wilson sales rep spray-paint a
W
across the racket face, so they were free, but I liked this particular string job on this racket, I liked them tight but
     not real tight, 62-63 p.s.i. on a Proflite stringer, and gut becomes pasta if it gets wet, but we were both in the fugue-state
     that exhaustion through repetition brings on, a fugue-state I’ve decided that my whole time playing tennis was spent chasing,
     a fugue-state I associated too with plowing and seeding and detasseling and spreading herbicides back and forth in sentry
     duty along perfect lines, up and back, or military marching on flat blacktop, hypnotic, a mental state at once flat and lush,
     numbing and yet exquisitely felt. We were young, we didn’t know when to stop. Maybe I was mad at my body and wanted to hurt
     it, wear it down. Then the whole knee-high field to the west along Kirby Avenue all of a sudden flattened out in a wave coming
     toward us as if the field was getting steamrolled. Antitoi went wide west for a forehand cross and I saw the corn get laid
     down in waves and the sycamores in a copse lining the ditch point our way. There was no funnel. Either it had just materialized
     and come down or it wasn’t a real one. The big heavy swings on the industrial swingsets took off, wrapping themselves in their
     chains around and around the top crossbar; the park’s grass got laid down the same way the field had; the whole thing happened
     so fast I’d seen nothing like it; recall that Bi-mini H-Bomb film of the shock wave visible in the sea as it comes toward
     the ship’s film crew. This all happened very fast but in serial progression: field, trees, swings, grass, then the feel like
     the lift of the world’s biggest mitt, the nets suddenly and sexually up and out straight, and I seem to remember whacking
     a ball out of my hand at Antitoi to watch its radical west-east curve, and for some reason trying to run after this ball I’d
     just hit, but I couldn’t have tried to run after a ball I had hit, but I remember the heavy gentle lift at my thighs and the
     ball curving back closer and my passing the ball and beating the ball in flight over the horizontal net, my feet not once
     touching the ground over fifty-odd feet, a cartoon, and then there was chaff and crud in the air all over and both Antitoi
     and I either flew or were blown pinwheeling for I swear it must have been fifty feet to the fence one court over, the easternmost
     fence, we hit the fence so hard we knocked it halfway down, and it stuck at 45°, Antitoi detached a retina and had to wear
     those funky Jabbar retina-goggles for the rest of the summer, and the fence had two body-shaped indentations like in cartoons
     where the guy’s face makes a cast in the skillet that hit him, two catcher’s masks offence, we both got deep quadrangular
     lines impressed on our faces, torsos, legs’