A Matter of Leverage

The wind had rolled a heavy green tennis ball beneath the bottom crossbar of the iron patio bench. It sat wedged between the cold stone flagstones and the rough iron curve, completely immovable to a gentle tap. I planted my boots firmly on the damp slate, dropped into a low crouch, and set my shoulder square against the iron strut. Digging deep, I drove upward with my legs. The bench gave a low, metallic groan and shifted just enough. With my free hand, I snapped the mallet handle forward and nudged the felt ball out into the open courtyard. Solid, honest work.