I was mesmerized by the sight of a boy and his father playing tennis. The boy, no more than seven, dressed in a bright orange shirt and shorts that were just slightly too big for him, making them almost look like sugar sack pants perhaps worn by his grandfather as an immigrant Russian or Lithuanian boy. He and his father spoke some other language. Since we were at teh tennis courts next to the Jewish Community Center, I at first assumed it was Hebrew and that they were practiciing Hebrew along with their tennis. I realized that they spoke nothing but this other language, causing me to see that likely it was not a language lesson.
This all happened in a small number of minutes spent resting from a basketball game with some friends after work. After three games, I needed a rest, and the arrival of an extra person allowed for me to bow out of the next game and let my body temperature decrease and my flow of perspiration slacken to a trickle rather than a gush.
The father would serve up a ball from a nearby basket full of bright yellowish green fuzz-balls. The boy would return them almost all perfectly well, be it forehand or backhand...and sometimes the father would return the volley and others he would serve up a new ball immediately if the boys return was wild or short. One time the father had gathered several balls, too many it appears, and served one to the boy... upon which the boy sent a rocket of a return straight back at his father leaving him no choice but to defend himself with a backhand but also having the effect of causing him to drop his armload of fuzzballs allowing them to bounce around comically at his feet. The boy laughed heartily at this, nearly falling down at the sight, and the father was left with no choice but to chuckle at himself despite his apparent desire to make the session a little more serious.
I forced myself to not imagine the joy of sharing such a moment with one of my own children. I forced myself to watch what was going on and enjoy the beauty of the moment as an observer only and not a participant. To allow myself to witness what was happening without a selfish or inward thought. It was not hard, but it required effort.
I was able to perceive the setting sun, now only shining directly on half of the court, illuminating the bright orange of the little boy's shirt. The sun glinting off of the boys head gave the effect of a halo and made him seem as bright as a new day dawning.. despite the impending end of the current day. This seemed appropriate, as appropriate as his father in the shadow.. slightly bent and less lively... dressed in drabber colors that accentuated his age if not exaggerated it. A title for a painting of the moment would be, "the new king arises." While I have no idea who the man was, or if he was ever the king of anything, it was clear from this moment the father who was entering the sunset of his potential, was passing on the skills and traits that would serve his protege in his coming years as his sun begins to rise.
After that thought, I gave up my attempts to capture the moment any further realizing that I was again beginning to imagine the importance of the moment in my own terms, in terms of my life and my moments and not the current one that I was there only to witness. I watched them until the basket was empty and the father begain to walk around the court picking up the fuzz balls with his basket. About that time, my compatriots beckoned me to join them in a basketball game and, having caught my breath and ceased sweating profusely, I relented and left the boy
