Part II of the King-Is-Dead Trilogy
by Rakk

( Part I )

A retired wizard, Dom Zarro, from the far-off and fabled lands of Oz,
happened to settle down in the little borough of Bowie-by-the Bay, and
began to look for challenges and challengers to meet his mettle. He had
heard about this father-and-son duo who played racquet-le-ball, and
decided that he might un-retire his old racquet, and see if he could
generate a little action, perhaps even to the point of reviving his
old skill on the court. It had been many years since he had played,
and many a flagon of Old Tooths Ale had bulged his belly, but he was
pretty sure that the grazers and Z-slashes remained in his repertoire.

By chance, one day, when he was leaving The Ace-in-the-Corner Pub, he
almost ran into a man hurrying along the cobblestones with an oddly
shaped package in hand. “Begging your pardon, my good man”, he said,
“are you a player of Racquet-le-ball? And in that packet, is that by
any chance…” “But sir”, said the hurried gentleman, as he paused
to look carefully at the wizard, “Do I have the pleasure of meeting
The Dominator?” Dom Zarro smiled and replied, “It has been many years
since I have been called The Dominator! Please call me Dom.” The
other said, “And please call me Rakk.”

Not a day passed before the two gentlemen found themselves on
the court. And certainly, the years had taken a toll on The Dominator,
but still, his Z-slash shot was a fearsome one, as the ball ripped
from the left wall to the right on his serves. And when he happened to
occupy the front of the court, the Z-slash shot kissed the front wall
so slightly and low, it required a dive of desperation for Rakk to
return it. But Rakk had observed the sag of Dom’s belly, and used his
old strategy, serving to the right wall, then the left, then the right,
until Dom was gasping for breath, and barely able to continue.

The games continued on a regular basis, once a week, always two days
before, or two days after a father-son game. Rakk was careful not to
wear himself out by scheduling games too close together. The wiles
and sneaks of the wizard paid off when the father had to contend with
the ever-growing skill of the son. The Z-slash shot completely
baffled the son, and every trick that The Dominator pulled out of his
decades-old repertoire transferred over to the father’s games against
the son. Months of brutally desperate games passed, and it was as if
the son was not playing his father, but The Dominator.

But time wore on, as it will, and still after months the son had not
beaten his father. Time made his legs lengthen in adulthood, so also
his arms, and it became harder and harder for the father to sneak a
ball past him. His speed and agility increased as fast as his height
and reach, and the grazing Z-slashes had to be ever more accurate for
the father to win.

——-end of part II———

Last night Rakkity sent me the link to this summer’s hike into the mountains by the “fogies foursome.” The mountain range now has a pseudonym to keep it annoymous and unfindable, at least by readers of this blog. Rakkity tells me the accompanying text is sparse, but when time allows, he will add more. Yes, I guess I did complain, but it’s sparse by his standards as well as mine. Take a gander at last year’s adventure.

Clouds drifing into the Rift.

Hiking down to the Rift.

by rakkity

Once upon a time in the days of yore (2002 CE), in the little borough
of Bowie in the kingdom of Maryland-sur-le-Bay, a father and son
started going to the court to practice their skills in the ancient
sport of racquet-le-balle. They did this on a regular basis,
usually twice, sometimes thrice (rarely frice) per fortnight. In the
beginning, the son made all the errors he was prone to: standing too
far back in the court or too close to the side, leaning in one
direction or the other, a little off balance, or showing by one sign
or another that he was expecting a shot from a certain direction. The
father duly noted these mistakes and took shameless advantage of
them, hammering the ball into untoward places, with unhappy effects on
the son’s composure. Every time, he gently pointed out the son’s
mistake, but took advantage to go onto win anyway. When the son leaned
north, the service ball passed south, and when the son leaned south,
the ball passed to the north. When he stood in the rear of the court,
the ball landed in the front, and when he stood close to the front,
the ball bounced behind him. And the scores were always lop-sided in the
father’s favor.

Initially the two played with the old-style racquets of base metals,
and the son won an occasional game due to his speed and strength. But
the two players happily found newly-forged racquets of magical
lightweight metals, which increased the velocity of play. But with
these new racquets, the player’s strength and speed made less of a
difference, but scheming play worked even better. After that, over
the weeks and months, the father ruled the court, losing not a game
during the subsequent year of play.

The situation changed when the teen-aged daughter, newly enscholared
at the local college, asked to join in an occasional game. Thence
forth, the games became three-somes, and the son and father played
left-handed, so as not to overwhelm their winsome partner. With this
arrangement, the daughter was competitive, but the son and father
still won a reasonable fraction of the games, and kept their right
arms rested for the occasional right-handed battle, which the father
persisted in winning.

Two years into these games, the son left the borough to seek his
fortune, but returned to town every Friday to test his mettle on the
court. During that year he seemed to grow still taller, and his arms
longer. He learned not to stand too far back or forward in the court,
and showed no tendency to lean to one side or the other. In the
father-son games, he commanded the center and, with his height and
reach, no corner of the court was safe for the ball to pass him by.
Still, by hook and treacherous crook, his old father managed to sneak
the ball around him, using wall-grazing returns with twisty spins and
semi-magical back-wall drops that eluded the son’s reach.

Over time, the son developed a powerful back-hand, with all the
practice of returning balls that fell elusively to the back wall in
the depths of the corners, in such a way that only a back-handed smash
off the back wall had any chance of returning to the front wall. His
leaps and upward stretches made it almost impossible to loft a ball
over his head. His speed and lack of fear at crashing head-first into
the side walls made it difficult for the father to get a wall-grazer
past him. But the father just grew more cunning, and never repeated
exactly the same kind of shot in sequence.

The scores of these father-son games grew ever closer, sometimes with
the son losing only 10-15 or 11-15, and occasionally games would start
off with the son winning four, even five, serves in a row. But the
father knew the son’s few remaining fatal weaknesses, and he would
proceed to win several points in a row, eventually pulling ahead and
going on to win. He played these games like chess, serving often to
the corner deeps, and sometimes making a surreptitious slow serve
right after a series of fast serves. He served shots that traced a z,
or a backwards z, making the ball apparently curve through the air,
re-bounding parallel to the court’s back wall. In the early months,
serves like these used to bedevil the son and drive him to swing
futilely and miss, or if he didn’t miss, return with a weak parry that
led the father to a kill.

The increasing skill of the son would have led inevitably, if only by
random luck, to a win against the father, except for the
fortuitous appearance on the scene of the old master Zarro.

———————To be continued—————————-

Ed and Beth (Mr. & Mrs. rakkity) take a working vacation in
France.

Yes, it was a stunning place! And for a week we wandered around the high desert, oblivious to the political expostulations we’re normally immersed in.

But near the end of our trip, we saw the headlines about Reagan’s death in some Utah newspapers. The Utahans are Reagan worshippers, and the editorials of their papers expounded on the “earth-shaking” things he did. But if you ask anyone in Esteli what they thought and think of Reagan, you will get a different answer:

After returning here, I was stunned at the differences of opinion in the DC area. While thousands mourned their hero in the parade on the Mall, many others shook their heads and wondered whether America has changed at all since the 80’s (or the 50’s). William Raspberry, writing in the Post today, pointed out how Reagan had given tax exemptions to the racist Bob Jones university. This afternoon, a caller from So. Africa to NPR’s Kojo Nambe show recalled Reagan’s inability to reject the fascist government that jailed Mandela. Others quoted the polls of Reagan’s last year in office: his popularity was lower than Clinton’s immediately after the votes for impeachment.

I’m heading for the mountains again Thursday. It’s time to abandon what serves for civilization.

rakkity’s racquetball updates from Maryland:

I ended up playing 3 people yesterday, an undergrad before KT came,
then KT, and after dinner, Dominic.

Made several visits to Dr Ibumotrin Advil last night.
By the time of the games with Patrick tomorrow, maybe I’ll have
numbed up a bit. P. may not realize it, but his chances of
winning have improved markedly.

******************************************

The undergrad was hanging out around the courts looking for a pickup game, and I was warming up while waiting for Katie. He asked if I wanted to play, and I said, “Sure, but I’m waiting for my daughter, so it’ll have to be a short game.” So we started off playing, and after 5 minutes or so, he was beating me 5-3. His serves were fast, but not difficult, and he didn’t seem to know about Z-shots. Just as I was catching on to his weaknesses. Katie appeared, and the guy graciously bowed out. So we’ll never know whether I could have beaten him or not (unless he shows up at some later date.)

I played Katie left-handed for 3 1/2 games, beating her in the first 2 games (something like 15-10, 15-11), then in the last 5 minutes, we played a quick game, which she won 5-4.

Dominic was supposed to meet me at 8 pm, and I got to the gym about 7:30 to warm up. I was tooling along on the elliptical trainer for a while, glancing up to the clock every now and then to see if D. had arrived. 7:45 and no Dominic, 7:50 and still no Dominic. 7:55, and 8:00, no Dominic, so I made a call to his home. His wife answered the phone, and very apologetically said, “He’s on his way. I’m sorry he’s late, it was my fault.”

A few minutes later, Dominic came. I asked him if he had had dinner (having pre-game dinners had been his downfall previously), and he said no. He humbled me in our first game. He got me with about 10 straight booming serves to my weak backhand, and then I managed to return one, and and almost caught up to him, but he finally beat me 14-10. The second game was similar, but by the 3rd game his energy was waning, and I beat him. He went out for an emergency infusion of empty calories, and after scarfing down a Snickers bar, he beat me soundly again. I wanted to continue, but he refused, saying, “The Snickers bar sugar is wearing off. I’m too tired to play any more.”

It’s now time to reserve a court for the games with Patrick at 5. If I survive after 6, I’ll let you know.

******************************************

Patrick and I played 3 games, and this time I was glad he was late (as usual) in getting to the gym from his job. It gave me some time to warm up. And as he had no warm up at all, I trounced him in the first game. But the second game got up to 2-2 and stuck there, as we each volleyed and volleyed and volleyed. The server would eventually lose his serve, then we’d have another dozen volleys, and that server would lose his serve. We went on for about 10 minutes stuck at 2-2 before I scored a point. Patrick must have gotten warmed up by then, so it was a hard fought game, which I only won by the skin of my teeth, 15-12. The third game was even tougher, and Patrick had an early lead, 3-0, so I had to bear down hard. Patrick got some amazing saves, grabbing several wall scrapers, and scooping up some back-wall droppers, and he managed to recover some tough kill shots that I was sure he’d miss. With his 6′ height and very long arms, it’s hard to send a shot past him when he stands in the middle of the court. We were up to 12-12 when I got lucky and moved ahead to 14-13. My last return shot hit the front wall only an inch above the floor. Patrick dove for it manfully, but couldn’t quite reach it, and I eeked out another win.

But if we ever play 4 games, Patrick will win for sure, because he’s not dripping with sweat like I am after 3!