This time it was messy, unlike with my grandparents.
The way my father had fallen, slowly lowering himself to his knees before slumping over onto his side, made my mother initially believe he was putting on a show for his grandchildren. She said, “Sid, stop joking around. This is a serious tournament.”
Then Simon called out, “Dad?”
My mother, with worry creeping into her voice, said, “Enough already. Get up.” Vincent shouted, “Grandpa!”
And Marcus shouted, “He’s peeing out of his mouth!”
We realized then that he wasn’t joking around. My mother screamed and ran over to him, and for some reason lifted his hand with the tennis racquet in it, before letting it drop to the court.
My mother’s scream brought Ellen running out of the house. “What’s wrong?”
I wanted to answer but didn’t know
