I was hoping we'd play again

It was early morning, out on the tennis courts, and cold for September.

"Come hit some balls with me," my friend said.

We both had final matches that day, but not against each other. "Alright," I said. "It'll warm us up."

We hit the ball back and forth, slowly at first, then harder. People arrived, setting up tables for the competition that day. USTA officials in their distinctive striped shirts started appearing, checking the nets, putting out cans of tennis balls. Volunteers set up breakfast- coffee, juice and trail bars. Other players and tired family members started arriving, parking vans and cars and trucks in the lot not far away, calling out to each other. Their laughter intermingled with the sound of air pumps as tires were filled.

My friend signaled to me and we rolled to the net. "I've always enjoyed playing with you," she said.

"Me, too."

"I was hoping we'd play again this tournament."

"We'll play again," I said.

We didn't. It was her last tournament and she knew it. Her MS was getting worse and by the time the next season rolled around, she wasn't able to play any more.

As I rolled off the court to get ready for my match, I looked back at her. She was in her wheelchair at the center of the court, staring up to the sky, as if asking why.

I didn't understand. I do now.