They roll their balls down the dusty track, and squeal with glee as they collide with the others. But then what? Do they run after them? Do they pick them up in their mouths, and enjoy the texture with their tongue and teeth? No. They ruminate on geometry and relative distance. They measure. They frown. They cogitate. They measure some more. They discuss at great length the placement of the spheres, and make vague references to Euclid. I don’t get it.
If you’re gonna play games, keep it simple. Find a tennis ball. Get someone to throw it for you. Go get it! Now, put it in your mouth and show it who’s boss. If you feel like it, bring it back. Or not. Once the balls in your mouth, you call the shots. (Unless of course, you’re kept on a leash like some sort of animal.)
Anyway, Hemingway said “There are but three sports – bullfighting, motor racing, and mountaineering – the rest are merely games.”
Spoken like a man who never played fetch…
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