The Squash Player
Kent Nelson
Art McNeal woke at four o'clock Tuesday morning with a sharp pain in his lower back. He tossed for half an hour before his wife, Muriel, turned over and said, "For God's sake, Art, go to sleep."
He got up and went to the bathroom, where he checked himself in the full-length mirror. Not a mark: his ribbed back showed no cut or bruise. He turned around and stared for a moment at his sleep-swollen face and the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. Back trouble was no joke. He knew men far younger than he who couldn't play tennis or golf or even jog. He tried bending back and forth, but the pain restricted him to swaying. He got into the shower and turned the dial spigot toward hot.
Muriel came into the bathroom with her robe on and got a glass of water. Art leaned from the shower.


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