August 31, 2009

Page 146

I'd been in the middle of trying to run down a ball way out of mortal reach, a rare blind lucky dribbler of a drop-shot from the over-groomed lox across the net.  A point I could have more than afforded to concede.  But that's not the way I ... that's not the way a real player plays.  WIth respect and due effort and care for every point.  You want to be great, near great, you give every ball everything.  And then some.  You concede nothing.  Even against loxes.  You play right up to your limit and then pass your limit and look back at your former limit and wave a hankie at it, embarking.  You enter a trance.  You feel the seams and edges of everything.  

Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace

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