red dirt

Once upon a time there was a sliding, sweating, swearing happy tennis player in Paris.

Terra battue, red dirt. Clay. Crushed rock. Players try to crush their opponent.

Flame and glory.

Work the ball. Patience. Determination. Run and slide. Run and slide.

Get dirty playing dirt ball.

Dust gets in your eyes. Long exhausting rallies.

Drink water. Lots of water. Eat a banana. More water. 

Mental toughness. Savy guile. Sweet touch. 

Play percentages; in, direction, depth, spin, power. Consistency.

Make them hit one more ball.

Dirt negates power. 

Work the ball. Grind it out, said a weeping elephant.

displaced aggression

She pedals her New Star bike into Siem Reap for iced coffee. It's cold and delicious. Men play chess slapping wooden pieces, gesticulating at high decibels. 

Kick boxers on a plasma screen pummel each other with knees and gloves and violent fury to the endless delight of invisible millions with displaced latent aggression after a recent genocide.

WHAM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM! YES!

Saturday and Sunday afternoons are filled with masses of boys and men in cafes screaming at a television. 

KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!

Idle men sit in shaded empty white tourist vans waiting for bodies brushing dust. 

Looking busy is fun.