I'm so glad to be playing racquetball again, if only one or two times a week. I walk through the glass doors, into the large empty court, and for sixty minutes I'll think only about the game: serve, return, volley, kill shot — the action so fast there isn't time to think of all the things that are constantly eating away at me.

We haven't had a vacation in years, money is tight, date nights a rarity, the car is breaking down (again), and the problems (and bills) are non-stop. Racquetball, therefore, feels like a bit of a luxury.

Nonetheless, I recently realized that if I didn't find an escape, a momentary respite, I was actually doing myself and my family a disservice. After all, how can I be a good friend, husband, and father if I constantly feel like an animal backed into a corner?