The Bull's Sunday Game

At seventy-three, Margaret had never heard of padel until her grandson Jake brought her to the courts. The game looked like tennis but warmer somehow, played inside a glass cage where laughter echoed.

"Just hit it, Grandma! Like the vitamin C commercial — bam!" Jake called out, grinning as he chased the ball.

Margaret laughed, her joints protesting. She remembered her father, old George — everyone called him The Bull. Not because he was fierce, but because he was stubborn as an ox and gentle as a spring breeze. Every Sunday, The Bull had taken her fishing, even when she'd rather been playing with dolls. He'd taught her that showing up, even when you didn't want to, was the real vitamin of life.

"You're thinking again," Jake said, bouncing the ball. "Grandpa George's bull face."

Margaret smiled. How could she not? The Bull had left her his fishing pole last year, along with his secret: vitamin B supplements he swore kept him going until eighty-seven. Just last week, she'd found his old bull-shaped bottle opener tucked in her junk drawer.

She swung the paddle, surprised when the ball sailed back over the net. Jake cheered like she'd won Wimbledon.

"Your grandfather would've loved this," she said, suddenly breathless not from exertion but from memory. "He'd say, 'Maggie, life's like padel — you can't control every bounce, but you can always take another swing.'"

Jake nodded, growing quiet. "I miss him."

"Me too, sweet boy. But we're both here, playing his Sunday game." She adjusted her grip on the paddle, feeling The Bull's stubborn strength in her bones. "Now hit it back. Like vitamin — bam!"

The ball arced toward her, and Margaret swung, surprised again by how much she was enjoying this strange game that felt like coming home.