... to write lately. Girls softball season is underway. Three games this week. I love coaching and watching Megan and her teammates play. So, for now, enjoy the genius David Foster Wallace, from his collection of essays and arguments "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again." This is just beautiful and brilliant and the kind of unspun, honest observation I like Wallace for, whether his words comfort or discomfort me; generally they do both:
"What he says aloud is understandable, but it's not the marvelous part. The marvelous part is the way (Michael) Joyce's face looks when he talks about what tennis means to him. He loves it; you can see this in his face when he talks about it; his eyes normally have a kind of Asiatic cast because of the slight epicanthic fold common to ethnic Irishmen, but when he speaks of tennis and his career the eyes get round and the pupils dilate and the look in them is one of love. The love is not the love one feels for a job or a lover or any of the loci of intensity that most of us choose to say we love. It's the sort of love you see in the eyes of really old people who've been happily married for an incredibly long time, or in religious people who are so religious they've devoted their lives to religious stuff: it's the sort of love whose measure is what it has cost, what one's given up for it. Whether there's 'choice' involved is, at a certain point, of no interest... since it's the very surrender of choice and self that informs the love in the first place."
— David Foster Wallace
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