It wasn't a heart attack after all. And how could it be, I wondered, even as the pain grew in my chest like a succubus. I gasped for breath that I couldn't find. The air left the room and left me sprawled on the living room chair where I normally read the paper, and struggling to breathe. Thirty years of hard tennis and nearly vicious racquetball had rendered my knees bony stumps of gristle and shard, but left my heart…
John H. TimmermanMarch 1, 2010