The worlds noblest sport has been resurrected once more. Dusting off their atrophied muscles and emerging into the sun from their dark dens of winter, hooligans Marlo Leelan Brown and Pipe Adams met at the famed Massapequa platform tennis courts to harken in the days of spring in a ritual of sport. Symbolizing Saturn, LuLu rotated on her axis and served as head referee.
Both Marlo’s and Pipe’s winter cobwebs were completely and totally evident, as both struggled to control the ball on the tiny platform tennis courts. Sweaty and out of breath, the number of games played reached only four, a far cry from the days of yore when the number of games played could easily reach fifty. A sad state of affairs no doubt, the boys both agreed, for the court must be too small. Not enough of a challenge, they said, and plans were etched to move the next round to a real life-size tennis court, next-time they meet of course. Since the Soccer Tennis Accords of 2008, the game has existed in it’s present form on the Massapequa courts and it is time for a change.
The rules are simple and as follows: Participants must serve on a half-volley. The ball may only bounce once after crossing the net. After fielding the ball, a player is allowed one additional bounce before the ball must be returned cross the net. Points may only be garnered on serves.
The American Soccer Tennis Association represents a corruption of the original teachings of the game as set forth by the hooligans many moons ago. The ASTA defiles the sport by introducing the concept of red cards and by wheeling aged former professional soccer players (cmon, Mauricio Cienfuegos? He has to be in his fucking fifties. Leave the game to the young bucks Thomas Dooley. The young bucks who are fast approaching their thirties. Regardless, our games are more entertaining than the ASTA’s hand-picked highlight reel. They possess NO off-colour banter (fuck red-cards). This is what the hooligans are fucking famous for! You’re not going to hear Luis Hernandez make a fucking Milan Kundera reference, trust me. Dude probably can’t even read.) onto grass cut tennis courts.
Whatever, nothing matters or exists anyway.
Where is Brady?