Oh, to be a ball boy at the US Open. You worked so hard to get here. You are a competitive tennis player in your own right, with good instincts, incredible speed, and probably a parent on the executive board. There you are, waiting at the edge of the net or the back of the court, your eyes magnetized to that rotating yellow orb, on the balls of your feet ready to lunge at any error. You repeat your mantra: I see the ball, I hear the ball... I am the ball.
Then this happens...
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