Yesterday I woke early and had a breakfast of vitamins and painkillers so I could play tennis with a man named Cary Ng, who works as a freelance graphic designer here in Brooklyn. Most everyone I play against has a family history — or a mythology — to tell during changeovers and water-breaks. During our match Cary told me both his parents were Chinese, but he grew up in Puerto Rico. I told him that my neck was bothering me, that the pain behind my right shoulder would hamper my serve. He said he spoke Cantonese at home and went to an American-style prep school in San Juan, where classes were conducted in English. He also speaks Spanish — not fluently, but enough to watch Narcos without subtitles.