It's tennis match season, and it's my job to watch a fuzzy 2.57" ball as it volleys from one side of the court to the other. From the perspective of the ball, it's a percussive smack, and then a free deceleration to another percussive smack. The rhythm is rarely regular, and the contrast between what the brain expects rhythmically and the games actual rhythm is a constant source of cognitive irritation. Occasionally - and to the winner's benefit - the ball breaks free of the rhythm and finds its way to the court surface. That's when I leap into action and scoop it up in my mouth.
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