So, DH and I have recently joined a tennis center to add a little variety in our exercise routines and to provide us with an alternative to the dinner & a movie, dinner & a movie, dinner & a movie repetitiveness of date night.
I’m enjoying it quite a bit. In addition to weekly clinics, I’ve been tapped on occasion to join other members on the court for friendly matches. Now, I’ve “played” tennis, or more appropriately, I’ve handled a racquet since 1991 — good grief, that’s 20 plus years. The great thing about tennis is it’s like riding a bike. So long as the mechanics are there, you don’t really lose it.
I got called to play a singles match against another new club member, and while I consider doubles my forte, I was kind of excited. I thought, “Hey, I’ve been doing well at the clinics. My ground strokes are coming back. This’ll be good.”
I headed out there feeling like this. . . .
![[source]](http://2008.usopen.org/images/pics/large/b_0907_071_Serena.jpg){kind=link}
but by the time I got to the courts, I was feeling more like this. . .
![[source]](http://bendersbetterbrother.files.wordpress.com/2007/07/fat-tennis-player.jpg){kind=link}
Nerves, man. My nerves were crucial. I had to feel her out to see what I could expect. Everyone talks a little trash to do just that and I’m no exception. It was kind of like that playdate poker, trying to figure out what’s what.
Me: So, have you been playing long?
Her: Oh, I haven’t played in a while. I’m just getting back into it.
Me: Oh, yeah, me, too. I’ve been playing off and on, but mostly off.
Her: Oh, okay. Did you start playing in high school or in college?
Me: I started playing back in ’91, middle school, actually.
Her: Oh, really? I went to college on a tennis scholarship. Tsk, tsk, such a long time ago.
Me: Oh, don’t worry about it. Anita at the front told me that you were in your 40’s (meoowwwww!!) but that you’d have no problems keeping up.
We just served up big plates of BS with a side of put up or shut up, which meant we both were pretty nervous. We rally back and forth for a while to warm up, and I can tell, she’s very good. One of the things I have going for me though, is that I will run for anything. So drop it short, I’m out of the gate and charging towards it. Cross court, down the line, whatever, I’m going for it. Then, I’m gunning for the net because volleying is one of my favorite things.
Another favorite of mine is my cross court backhand. Once I get the rhythm, it’s pretty kick ass. Summer after summer sweltering on public courts, and winter after winter, suffocating on indoor courts, I really honed that nice two handed cross. Add a little topspin on it, and watch out now. Like I said, though, I’ve been playing more off than on, so my consistency is on that shot is for crap.
Anyway, Miss College Scholarship and I start playing. My serve, which is the equivalent of Rocky Dennis in terms of beauty, is actually holding. One thing that has always irked me about tennis is that no matter how many points you win in a game, even if you come back from love and have about 2 dozen deuce points, if you lose the game, you lose the game. She’s up 3 to 1 in the first set, which is respectable. I got a game, I could probably eke out a few more.
My backhand is coming around and my forehand doesn’t want to be left out. She serves, nice little spinner in the middle of the box that jumps to the backhand side on the bounce. I get my racquet on it just enough to send it squealing to the forehand corner just between the inner alley line and the baseline.
Ol‘ girl, once she figures it out, starts digging to the corner, racquet rolling back and then. . .
She’s airborne.
It was the longest seven seconds of my life.
She reached.
She swung, and the momentum kept her going a few feet until she landed on her left knee and right forearm before skidding to a stop.
Oh. My. Sweet. Mother. Of. Pearl
The pro on the other court, another pro who had been watching from the doorway, and I swarmed over to her where I think her pride was throbbing more than her knee and arm combined.
Thankfully, nothing was broken more than her ego, and after a short break, we were back on the court. I guess I was feeling uber remorseful because I started just lobbing soft balls to her, which she proceed to ram back to me. I mean, she was hobbling from side to side — I didn’t want to be a total bee-yotch and keep dropping ’em short, knowing that she wouldn’t even run for it. It’s called sportsmanship, people.
Despite my generosity, she must have been nursing a vendetta as well as some sore limbs, because she promptly took the remaining games of that set and all but one game of the next. Can you say, “playing possum?”
We finished up the remaining court time just rallying back and forth, which turned out to be a lot more fun once we removed the pressure of winning. Now that all the BS has been put to rest, her pride has recovered, and my own embarrassment has abated, future matches will probably be more enjoyable.
And she tries to floss with some of those scholarship moves? Well let’s just say, even sportsmanship can take a day off.
