Thiago stood at the practice net, a bright yellow ball in one hand and an orange racket in the other. He tossed the ball up, swung hard — the ball bounced off the frame and rolled under the net. "Again," he said to no one, and reached down to grab it.
Thiago tried again, holding the ball higher and swinging slower. The ball clipped the top of the net and dropped straight down with a soft tap. He picked it up and checked the strings — one was loose, dangling like a silly tongue.
The next day, Thiago tapped the ball against the court. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then against his racket. Tap. Tap. Then both at once, trying to keep the ball going up and up.
Each afternoon, Thiago came back. Tap, tap, tap. The ball bounced higher. The loose string on the racket flapped in the wind. The ball bounced higher still.
One afternoon, Thiago tossed the ball and swung hard. The ball rocketed over the net — once, twice — then bounced back toward him, like it wanted to keep playing. He stared. Then a wide grin broke across his face and he pumped his fist.
Thiago set up three balls in a row and lined them up. He took a deep breath, tossed the first ball, and sent it sailing over the net — clean, true, and perfectly on its side.
The ball sailed over the net and landed perfectly on the other side. It bounced once, rolled to a stop. Then Thiago reached for the second ball before the first one even stopped rolling.
By the time the third ball bounced back, Thiago was already swinging again. Over the net. Clean. True. Perfect.
Tap. Tap. Tap. The ball arced over and over, each swing smoother than the last. The loose string on the racket still flapped, but Thiago didn't notice. He was too busy keeping the ball going.
The ball kept bouncing. Over the net. Back again. Over and over and over. Thiago kept swinging, and the ball kept coming, and the loose string kept flapping like it was cheering too.