Late at night, he contemplates his upwind hucking abilities and writes about himself in the third-person, shirtless, with that vaguely sweaty feeling typical of late August. The end of summer has always made him feel poetic, and, for him, there can be no finer subject to dwell on than that of his own wretched existence.
Of late, his forehand has been suffering - the result of too many low-release outside-in throws that scrape down hard on the broiling parking lot asphalt. He wonders if he will never again throw the pass like he did a month ago: twenty yards through traffic and his receiver didn't have to move an inch. Even his backhand has been failing him these days. His friend showed him a new grip, and now he doesn't know what to believe. Recently, it's all been up in the air.