Temper: On a Lighter Note

He had always had this wild upsurge when he was about to lose. But whatever his chances were of losing, they were made all the more bigger, by what that upsurge prompted.

He had always reined in his temper before it did any lasting damage. He would mutter under his breath, the choicest of expletives, directed at the Umpire, and his opponents.

He was not this peaceful outwardly (though inwardly it was boiling water) before he turned 14. On the eve of his birthday - the 14th - his mother had had a conversation with him regarding his temper. "Son before you let out the worst, start thinking. Think on whom your anger is directed at."

He had taken this cue from his mother. The muttering of the expletives was a way of buying time till his brain woke from it's sleep, groped for the glasses, and finally assumed the air of, "Mate, tell me your issues; I am all ready to think."

But each time he had this trouble, his over-sized brain (oh yeah over-sized! His conclusion about him being slow was that his brain was very big and had so many thoughts to deal with, which was why it could not deal with any particular concentrated attempt at thinking) would conclude that he was angry with himself and no other.

He would contest that conclusion in every way. But his brain knew him a little bit too. It would tell him that he was the kind of guy who would not hurt a fly, and being angry at someone was like trying to hurt them. That usually got him, and he would accept.

But this was quite a different occasion. This was the 1st round of Wimbledon. This time he could not let things off so easily. He was three match points down, and had shoved the umpteenth forehand into the net.

His brain started thinking. Understanding the helplessness of the situation, he cried out "Stop!! Not this time wise guy!" (all under his breath of course!)

It got hurt emotionally and went away and sulked silently in the bottom of his skull (what it called "the basement").

Having dismissed his brain, he was now all ready to deal with the situation - to see his enemy face-to-face. Ah there he was - a man who looked like a wisp of smoke - or was it just a wisp of smoke? Well he decided it was a man who looked like a wisp of smoke and not just a wisp of smoke. What was the fun in life without fantasies, anyway?

He saw the wisp advancing towards his hands - slowly but surely. It started taking the shape of what he held in his hand - his racquet. The racquet and the wisp that was in the shape of the racquet merged together.

There was no time now. He had to decide who he was angry with. Well, he normally did not get these "visions". So there must be some meaning to them. What? He couldn't think with his brain; how without it!

He simply decided the man that looked like the wisp of smoke or the wisp of smoke that looked like the man, and who/which had now merged with his racquet was the one against whom he was angry. His reflexes were sharp - "Wham! Wham! Wham!".

He was calm again - serene even. He had never felt like this. Perhpas it was because he had, for the first time in his life met the thing that was his enemy; and he had given it a pretty bad beating too.

Yeah now he could play some TENNIS. He went to take his spare racquet.

On reaching his chair, he found that he had forgotten to bring any.

He felt that upsurge again, and his brain slowly kicking back into activity. He started muttering the expletives...