A racquetball-aholic, I asked my mom to find me a suitable adversary. She recruited this fella from her office. When I walked into the racquetball court at the local YMCA, he was already there practicing his moves. A sweatshirt hung by threads from his neckline. He wore Converse high-tops cut off at the ankle; his shoelaces were untied and flying loose with each whack of the racket. He was certainly a vision.
Postscript: That was 26 years ago. This morning we woke up together from our cozy bed, in our old house. We retired the rackets to the basement some years ago due to our ancient knees.