Tennis with Boris and My Dad
"That was an ICBM," I shouted.
My father chuckled; his eyes on the ball. Racket back, and...
"Intelligent Vision!" he shouted.
"Elegant universe," I said, with a grunt.
"United action," he puffed.
Top of the net. I walked towards the front of the court. I picked up the balls that lay there.
My father, still smiling, walks up to me.
"You know this Yeltsin?" he asked.
"Boris," I said.
"Yes," he nodded. "I saw him on this television program, this Barbara Walters. She say to him, 'We are worry about your health.' He say, 'What do you mean? I take cold shower everyday.' "
I nodded in amazement. My father and I have tennis. No matter what happens in life, once we hit the courts, everything falls away, and it's just me and him, swatting balls, and shouting various Communist or scientific propaganda.
I love that about us.
I dropped the ball in mid-air and swung.
"Boooris!" my father replied.
"Gorbachov!" I smiled back.