10% Rackets, 90% Loose Ibuprofen and Regret
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10% Rackets, 90% Loose Ibuprofen and Regret
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Carrying a modern tennis bag is less about sports and more about preparing for a minor civilization collapse. Nestled between your three identical rackets—strung at slightly different tensions for "feel" but mostly for "superstition"—lies a geological survey of your life, including a "lucky" rubber chicken from twelve years ago and granola bars so old they’ve become structural. Your medical pocket is basically a mobile pharmacy, stocked with enough Advil, lidocaine patches, and KT tape to mummify a small horse, alongside emergency zip ties because you never know when the court windscreen might stage a revolution. By the time you’ve packed five cans of balls, a gallon of "Aussie fuel," three changes of clothes, and a tripod for your inevitable viral highlight reel, the bag weighs more than you do. You might look like a pro entering the court, but everyone knows the true mark of a veteran is the person who can unearth a specific dampener from the bottom of that abyss without needing a search-and-rescue team.
