Watching Perry play tennis has been one of my favorite moments of summer—the cool, overcast mornings, Arden and I bundled up in our fleece jackets sitting on the sidelines in our camp chairs, Arden with her rat books, me with my camera—we had such a sense of place there. With the immense, dark trees surrounding the park and the huge, overgrown blackberry brambles that were picked over by passersby, there was no mistaking we were in Oregon. It was a small slice in time that I felt lucky to share.
It was pretty quiet out on the court. The kids were focused. Some kids rushed the ball with a baseball swing and sent it sailing over the fence. Others sort of wobbled to it with their rackets limp at their sides, rolling the ball weakly back into the net. I loved watching each one of them. The only sounds you heard were the teachers calling commands and the bouncing of the balls. Other than that, the kids were silent.
Except for Perry, that is. He was pretty much talking (to anyone who would listen) the entire 45-minute session of every day. He updated his teachers with every single step of his progress and was a running commentary all to himself.
"That was super!"
"YES!"
"WHOA!"
"Did you see that?"
"I'm ready to hit!"
"That was AWESOME!"
"I did it!"
"I beat my own record!"
"WOW!"
"Watch THIS!"
His teachers matched his enthusiasm with, That's great, sweetie! or Great job, Perry! over and over again (you gotta love teachers) while the other kids stared at him blankly (he's used to that). At the end of the class, we thanked his teachers for the fantastic week and they asked me if he was always this enthusiastic. I said, Yes. Always. Unless he's enthusiastically unethused. Either way, you always know when he's shown up to play.
