Dad: Why didn’t he rush the net? God damn it! He ought to be putting those hangers away.

Mom: He was right to stay back. He’s got to build sound ground strokes.

Dad: There you go again. As if I didn’t know that! But if he hangs around the baseline all the time, he’ll get to be one of them specialists, and they never make it big.

Mom: Borg did.

Dad: That was long ago, and he was an exception. He was relentless on the court. He reminds me of this movie I saw once. It was a foreign picture in another language and I couldn’t understand a word of it. It had English words at the bottom of the screen that didn’t make much sense. It was real boring…

Mom: Then why tell me about it?

Dad: ’Cause just as I was getting ready to walk out, this army started to march towards these other guys who were waiting for them. They had these big old-fashioned guns with bayonets and were crossing a field to get at the other guys. These other guys were shooting the shit out of them, but they just kept coming. They didn’t look scared, didn’t curse or yell—just kept getting closer. When they got close enough to see their faces, the other guys ran. They knew these guys were animals. Swedes. Real brutes.

Mom: So what?

Dad: Borg’s a Swede.

Mom: What does that have to do with anything?

Dad: I don’t want my kid being an animal on the court.

Mom: You’re always telling him he’s got to be a killer out there.

Dad: Sure—he’s got to be a killer. But not an animal.

Mom: What’s the difference?

Dad: A killer wants to win at all costs. An animal won’t stop until he grinds the other guy into the dust.

Mom: They sound exactly the same to me.

Dad: No, they don’t.

Mom: Yes, they do.

Dad: Aw, you don’t understand.

Mom: Then explain, Mister Tennis Expert.

Dad: There you go again.

Mom: What?

Dad: Being sarcastic when I’m trying to have a serious conversation.

Mom: If you didn’t yell when I disagreed with you, I wouldn’t be sarcastic.

Dad: Ha. You admit it.

Mom: See what I mean.

Dad: Aw, you twist everything around.

Mom: By insulting me?

Dad: I was talking about junior’s net game.

Mom: You mean I dared to ask a question?

Dad: Can we get back to junior’s game?

Mom: Why do you think you know enough to coach him?

Dad: I watch tennis all the time and read strategy books.

Mom: Shouldn’t a professional assess his potential?

Dad: I can do it.

Mom: Did you ever ask junior what he wants?

Dad: He’s only a kid.

Mom: It’s his life.

Dad: It’s only a game.

Mom: But you behave like it’s life or death.

Dad: It is—if you want to be a champion.

Mom: Like an animal?

Dad: Whatever it takes.

Mom: Then let’s ask him.

Dad: Alright.

(She ignores his indignant protest.)

Dad: Yes, dear.