Nobody wants to just hit anymore. Everyone wants to keep score. Who designed this fifteen thirty forty garbage? Why not one two three four? Love for zero? Just say oh. When I was a kid, fifty sounded like a good time to end the game. Fifteen, thirty, forty, fifty. Fifty to nothing. Nice game.

Still warming up, Dan tries the net. I hit courtesy shots to his forehand, then his backhand, then after about three of those I pass him down the line. Remember that big guy? No pace, just placement.

The guy who wrote that inner game stuff claims I should be able to read the Penn 7 on the ball as it's coming at me. Well, he never faced Dan's serve. Dan named his serve Reggie. Sometimes Reggie is in the house, sometimes he isn't. I imagine that Reggie owns a mega-yacht floating offshore that has an eighty-footer as a shoreboat. Sometimes Reggie comes ashore and takes pity on poor Dan. When Reggie checks in, Dan feasts on his leftovers. No one stops Dan when Reggie comes to play.

As we continue warming up -- come on Dan, let's get it over with, it's only a game -- Reggie is half asleep, lounging out on the helicopter pad, lying in the sun, watching the ladies parade around the pool. The pool on the yacht. Dan tries another serve. I get out of the way as it goes over the base line. Reggie appears to be gone for the day. No problem.

"You about ready yet?"

I'm glad we have the courts to ourselves. A while ago I played Dan when he was in one of his testier moods. Dan couldn't hit anything in and was getting madder and madder. Finally, between games he was drinking water and watching a rather heated match on the court next to us. Dan called a foot fault on the guy serving in the other court. He'd never met these people and he calls a foot fault on a total stranger. I lowered my visor over my face.