The ball arches toward its apogee from the far court, rising to the left of the afternoon sun in a sky so cloudless it looks plastic. I try to concentrate on its passage and it seems to me for a moment I can read the green letters, PENN 7, against the lemon-colored covering as the topspin turns the ball through the air.

To my right I can hear the skipping steps of my wife as she turns and runs back from the net: she always skips when it's not her shot, an endearing mannerism that makes her attractive and girlish, the little blue skirt bouncing to show flashes of white underpants. Sheila is 33 years old, and only last week she was asked for identification at a bar.

"What do you mean?" she said, feigning indignation. "I have three children!"