We were headed the gym this morning, the soldier popped his new Patty Smyth cd into the jukebox after commenting on her little black dress.

“Too bad she married such a baby,” he said. “Why’d she do that, P? Why did she have to marry that big baby?”

“McEnroe?”

“Yeah, the big whiner. Every time the referees said anything he had throw a tantrum, throw his racket around like some kind of baby having a fit. Why would she marry a guy like that?”

“Don’t know. What you call baby some people might call passion.”

“Passion? What’s that the new PC word for a grown man-baby throwing a tantrum over a call some referee made?”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said.
We got out of the car and grabbed out gym bags. His said Spalding on it.

“This here is a tennis bag,” he said. “Someone says tennis? Is that your game? I’d say, hell no! Croquet. That’s my game.”

On that we went into the gym, The Rhino and P.