Mark Macey

There’s nothing endlessly exciting about a tennis ball, and I think all of you reading can agree on that. Even if the ball is collapsible, it’s not the greatest thing since sliced bread. For that matter, a lot of objects aren’t that fantastic once you think about it. A pen, some string, a notebook, paint: these aren’t things we give a second thought to.

I’ve been working with forty-two gorgeous, brilliant girls for the past week. They’re wide eyed and eager to learn. YMAD just built a brick walkway for them to the back of the school where they meet. I’ve never seen such excited girls. A brick walkway, there’s an object I know I’d take for granted.

But, let’s get back to that tennis ball. I worried for lives when I threw that fuzzy, green globe. A sea of girls with smiles and grabbing hands giggled, and it filled me with a fever greater than any exuberance I’d felt. An object evolving before my eyes from a ball to be beat with rackets to a treasure, a green emerald.

I have a lot… a whole lot. I’m going to come back here one day. I’ll drive up with a smile and a hundred tennis balls.