Antitoi's tennis continued to improve after that, but mine didn't.

I would like to share with you all the first tones of one of the greatest Track One, Side Ones in all of writing:

When I left my boxed township of Illinois farmland to attend my dad's alma mater in the lurid jutting Berkshires of western Massachusetts, I all of a sudden developed a jones for mathematics. I'm starting to see why this was so. College math evokes and catharts a Midwesterner's sickness for home. I'd grown up inside vectors, lines and lines athwart lines, grids -- and, on the scale of horizons, broad curving lines of geographic force, the weird topographical drain-swirl of a whole lot of ice-ironed land that sits and spins atop plates. The area behind and below these broad curves at the seam of land and sky I could plot by eye way before I came to know infinitesimals as easements, an integral as schema. Math at a hilly Eastern school was like waking up; it dismantled memory and put it in light. Calculus was, quite literally, child's play. 

--"Derivative Sport in Tornado Alley," from the book A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again by David Foster Wallace

And on a side note, peepholes: I am sad for the Kids Today, who'll never know the thrill of actually setting the needle down on a Track One, Side One. They've got a million billion music options and no boundaries at all, but they've been robbed of that moment of yes! this! right now! anticipation. Selah, kids.