Double Fault

"Your hedge is clearly encroaching on my property, Walter!" Harold exclaimed. His eyes narrowed at the unruly shrubbery that dared to defy the meticulously straight line he had established between their yards. The spry octogenarian's hands trembled (partly with indignation, and the rest was from a perpetual tremor) as he pointed an accusing finger at the offending greenery.

"Harold, you're acting like I planted it there just to piss you off," Walter said, rolling his eyes. He stood tall and proud, his white hair perfectly combed back, a touch of superiority lining his expression. "Besides, who really cares about a few inches of grass?"

"Who cares? I care! Precision is important, Walter, but I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand that." Harold's voice brimmed with frustration as he adjusted his immaculately tailored trousers.

"Someone like me?" Walter snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean, Harold?"

"Never mind," Harold said curtly, trying to regain his composure. Internally, he couldn't help but wonder why such a small thing as a boundary dispute had the power to make him feel so vulnerable. He would never allow Walter to know that, however. The competitive streak within him refused to let go.

“No, Harold, I do mind,” said Walter. “You think I don’t know anything about precision? You’re talking to the all time free throw streak record holder in basketball at Haysville High School. Back-to-back state champs in ‘58 and ‘59.”

“That’s your claim to fame? They’re free throws, for god’s sake. I’ve hit the most hole-in-one’s in the history of the country club. Now, that’s precision!”

It was in moments like these that Harold and Walter, desperate to maintain their reputations, let slip some embellishments about their athletic prowess.

"Back in my day, I was the captain of my college tennis team," boasted Harold, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he spun his tall tale. "I could serve an ace faster than you could blink."

"Is that so?" Walter said, unwilling to be outdone. "Well, I once trained with a former Wimbledon champion, if you must know. My backhand slice is nothing short of legendary."

"Let's settle this once and for all, Walter. A tennis match, winner takes all."

"A tennis match?" Walter raised an eyebrow, surprised by the proposition. But it was too late for him to back out now. After all, he needed to maintain his reputation in the neighborhood.

"Exactly," Harold said, trying to look as confident as Walter seemed. "The victor gets to decide where the boundary lies, and the loser must accept it. No more petty squabbles."

"Very well, Harold. You're on," Walter agreed, a sly grin appearing on his face. He extended his hand, and they shook on it.

As they parted ways to prepare for the match, both men wondered what they had gotten themselves into.

The truth was far less glamorous than their embellishments about their athletic prowess. Neither man had set foot on a tennis court in decades, and their athletic achievements were mostly confined to the realm of imagination. As the reality of their impending showdown began to sink in, Harold and Walter each retreated to their respective homes, the weight of their lies bearing down on them like the midday sun.

In the days leading up to the rivalry match, the two men tried their best to prepare for the competition they’d agreed to.

"Good heavens, what have I done?" Harold muttered to himself as he rummaged through his garage, searching for his long-abandoned tennis racket. When he found it, the dust-covered relic felt foreign in his hands, and he couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he had bitten off more than he could chew.

"Ridiculous," Walter grumbled under his breath. He paced back and forth in his living room as he practiced his nonexistent serve. The self-assured swagger that usually accompanied him seemed to have vanished into thin air, replaced by a gnawing sense of insecurity.

But despite their mounting anxiety, neither man could bring himself to admit defeat. As the day of the match drew near, Harold and Walter steeled themselves for what was shaping up to be a hilariously unskilled showdown – one that would test their fragile egos.

The sun glinted off the pristine tennis court. Harold and Walter, decked out in their finest athletic apparel, stepped onto it with all the swagger of two men blissfully unaware of their own ineptitude.

"Harold, you look like a love child between Bjorn Borg and a peacock," Walter quipped, eyeing his rival's flamboyant ensemble of neon green shorts and a matching headband.

"Really, Walter? At least I’m not dressed like a geriatric John McEnroe," Harold said, smirking at Walter's ill-fitting tennis whites and sweatbands adorning every available limb.

Beneath the surface bravado, both Harold and Walter were gripped by an overwhelming sense of dread.

"Alright, old man, let's get this over with," Walter said, taking his position for the first serve. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as he tossed the ball into the air. He swung wildly, missing the ball entirely and stumbling forward in an awkward pirouette.

"Maybe we should start with some warm-up volleys," Harold suggested, trying to hide his relief that Walter was faring no better than he had feared for himself. As they began to volley, it quickly became apparent that neither man possessed any semblance of skill or finesse. Their movements were slow and labored, their coordination laughable.

"Good lord, what sport did you say you played again? Sure as hell couldn't be tennis." Walter said. He hunched over with his hands on his knees and wheezed after chasing down yet another wayward ball.

"Hold your gob, Walter," Harold said, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "Let's get this thing going. Love-love."

The absurdity of the match was only heightened as Harold and Walter continued to struggle with even the most basic aspects of the game.

"Your serve," Walter said, tossing the ball to Harold. His rival took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and hurled the ball towards the net with all the force his aged frame could muster. The ball sailed high into the air, arcing gracefully over the court and landing somewhere in the adjacent parking lot.

"You know there are no points for effort in this game, right, Walter boy?" Harold said.

"I'm just getting warmed up," Walter said.

As they stumbled and bumbled through point after point, it became increasingly clear that neither Harold nor Walter would emerge victorious on skill alone.

The sun bore down mercilessly on the two elderly combatants, sweat streaming down their furrowed brows as they stared each other down from opposite sides of the tennis net. Harold's legs wobbled like a newborn fawn, while Walter struggled to catch his breath after an embarrassingly amateurish backhand had sent him sprawling into the chain-link fence.

"Come on, then!" Harold barked, his voice cracking under the strain of exertion. "Let's see if you can handle this serve!"

Walter smirked, though inwardly he wondered if he really could handle it. He hadn't played tennis since his days in college, and even then, it was more about impressing the ladies than honing any real skills. As Harold tossed the ball up, Walter braced himself for impact.

Thwack! The racket connected with the ball, sending it hurtling towards Walter at a speed that would have been impressive, had it not veered wildly off course and hit him squarely in the chest.

"Oof!" Walter wheezed, clutching his chest as the wind was knocked out of him. "Watch it!"

"I get a point for that," Harold said, trying to suppress a chuckle.

As they continued their clumsy duel, both men found themselves growing increasingly frustrated with their own lack of prowess. Time and time again, they failed to connect with the ball, or sent it sailing far beyond the boundaries of the court. It was humiliating, to say the least, and yet somehow, they couldn't bring themselves to throw in the towel.

A sudden clap of thunder heralded the arrival of storm clouds. The tennis court was suddenly overcast by shadow. Large droplets of rain began to spatter down upon the two elderly adversaries.

"Great!" Walter huffed, his hands on his hips as he glared at the stormy sky. "As if this match wasn't disastrous enough already."

"Come on, Walter," Harold said. "We're not made of sugar. A little rain never hurt anyone!"

"Speak for yourself, old man," Walter said. "I'm as sweet as they come." He didn't retreat from the court.

The rain came down harder, drenching both men and turning the asphalt beneath their feet into a slippery hazard. Their shoes squelched with each step, and their once-pristine athletic apparel clung to their bodies like second skins.

"Maybe we should call it a day?" Harold suggested, shouting to be heard over the deluge. "I can barely see the ball!"

"Are you conceding defeat, then?" Walter asked slyly, raising his eyebrow in challenge.

"Never!" Harold snapped. He gripped his racket tighter. "Let's do this!"

"Alright, let's get on with it," Walter said, tossing the ball into the air for a serve. Just as he swung his racket, however, the strings snapped with an anticlimactic twang.

"Seriously?" he shouted, staring at his broken racket in disbelief. "This match is cursed!"

"You're making the tennis gods angry," Harold laughed. Rain streamed down his face. "Ready to forfeit?"

"Shut up and keep playing," Walter growled, snatching a spare racket from the sidelines.

Despite the rain, broken rackets, and their complete incompetence on the court, Harold and Walter refused to give in. Their competitive spirits burned brightly within them, propelling them forward through the absurd circumstances.

The match continued, with both men pushing themselves to their limits, fueled by equal parts stubbornness and pride. The rain pounded down upon them, turning the court into a puddled mess, but still they fought on, refusing to admit defeat.

The sweat mingled with raindrops as they beaded on Harold's furrowed, wrinkled forehead, his eyes locked onto the ball as it soared toward him. He swung his racket with all the grace of an arthritic flamingo, managing to connect with a satisfying thwack.

"Take that!" he shouted triumphantly.

"Pure luck," Walter said, but his voice betrayed a hint of admiration for his rival's persistence.

"Face it, old man, I've got you beat," Harold crowed, feeling a sudden burst of energy. Their rivalry had been exhausting, but the thrill of victory was tantalizingly close.

"Ha! You wish!" Walter retorted, huffing and puffing like an asthmatic wolf trying to blow down a brick house.

Point by point, the tension mounted in the final set, both men aware that every hit mattered.

"Out!" Harold yelled, pointing at a spot near the line where the ball had landed. "That's clearly out!"

"Are you kidding me? That was in," Walter shot back.

"That was clearly out!"

"Are you blind? That's in by a mile!"

"Ridiculous!" Harold fumed. His face turned a shade of red that would have put a ripe tomato to shame. In a fit of anger, he hurled his racket at the ground, only for it to bounce back with a vengeance, smacking him squarely in the forehead.

"Ouch!" he yelped, toppling backward like a freshly chopped tree. Shock and fear consumed Walter as he watched his neighbor crumple onto the hard, slick court.

"Harold, are you alright?" Walter asked, genuine concern momentarily trumping their rivalry.

"Of course I'm alright," Harold said, rubbing his throbbing forehead. "Just... give me a second."

As he lay there, staring up at the rain-soaked sky, a new thought began to worm its way into his head. What was the point of all this? What did winning a silly tennis match actually prove?

"Hey, Walter..." he said, still flat on his back. "Why are we doing this again?"

"Beats me," Walter said. "I can’t even remember which pills to take on which days of the week without a little organizer box to tell me."

Walter blinked at the sodden figure of Harold, sprawled across the court like a discarded marionette. A chuckle bubbled up from deep within him and burst forth in a guffaw as he doubled over, clutching his sides.

"Laugh it up, old man," Harold said, sitting up with a grimace. He gingerly touched his tender forehead and winced. "I'm just glad I didn't break anything."

"Right. Wouldn't want that pride broken," Walter said, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Very funny," Harold said. The corners of his mouth twitched as though they were trying to suppress a smile. "Fine. You win this round, Walter. But I'll be back in top form before you know it."

"Top form?" Walter snorted. "Is that what we're calling this little display?"

"Shut up," Harold said, pushing himself to his feet. He attempted to brush some of the dirt off his once-pristine tennis whites, only to smear it further. "What do you suggest we do now, then?"

"Perhaps..." Walter hesitated, his laughter fading as a more somber expression took its place. "Perhaps we should stop this nonsense.”

"I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted," Harold said.

"Agreed," Walter nodded, extending a hand toward his longtime rival. "Truce?"

"Truce," Harold said, grasping Walter's hand firmly. "But if we're going to do this, let's do it right. No more petty competitions or one-upmanship. Just... friendship."

"Friendship," Walter echoed, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "I can live with that."

"Good," Harold said, taking a deep breath as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Now, let's go get cleaned up. I don't know about you, but I'm starting to smell like a wet dog."

"Same here. Two wet dogs," Walter laughed, putting his arm over Harold's shoulders as they hobbled off the court together, their shared laughter echoing through the neighborhood and signaling the dawn of a new era for them both.