Improv Resource Center - Forums
So, here's the story.
I'm standing at center court, Midtown Manhattan - prime time. A virtual racquetball novice, operating at a reduced capacity because of an ankle injury of unknown origin and even more unknown severity. My opponent? Schooled long ago in the ways of racquetball, and prepared for this match beyond my wildest expectations.
My opponent's boyishly handsome face is squirreled into a mask of disgust and disdain. He looks at me. I stare back with the intensity of ten thousand blazing suns.
He queries, "what's the score?"
I respond back, "You know what the score is."
He sighs, resigning himself to his fate. "It's your serve, 14 serving 10. Game point."
I grunt back, "You're goddamn right it is. Also, your mother."
This is it, folks. This is the stuff dreams are made of.
I bounce the ball twice. Before I serve, I look up. No less than 2 physical trainers look down on my form from the balcony above with what can only be termed utter admiration and longing.
This is my one moment in time.
I'm standing at center court, Midtown Manhattan - prime time. A virtual racquetball novice, operating at a reduced capacity because of an ankle injury of unknown origin and even more unknown severity. My opponent? Schooled long ago in the ways of racquetball, and prepared for this match beyond my wildest expectations.
My opponent's boyishly handsome face is squirreled into a mask of disgust and disdain. He looks at me. I stare back with the intensity of ten thousand blazing suns.
He queries, "what's the score?"
I respond back, "You know what the score is."
He sighs, resigning himself to his fate. "It's your serve, 14 serving 10. Game point."
I grunt back, "You're goddamn right it is. Also, your mother."
This is it, folks. This is the stuff dreams are made of.
I bounce the ball twice. Before I serve, I look up. No less than 2 physical trainers look down on my form from the balcony above with what can only be termed utter admiration and longing.
This is my one moment in time.