Personal Writing: Myself and Tennis The streets are silent as a sanctuary. The sun is still asleep in its bed of clouds and the only thing open is Waffle House. The clock on the dashboard of the car reads 5:58 a.m. The temperature reads 31 degrees Farenhieght. Although most of other kids my age are within the warm heat of their homes in their cozy beds still dreaming about cars, the big game, or their boyfriend or girlfriend of the week. I, along with a few others, am a wake dressed and ready for tennis practice. The image of white given off by the dew makes it look like newly fallen snow. The lights of the tennis courts are the sun s