Tennis anyone
Tennis Anyone
When I first learned how to play tennis, I must admit I wasn't in love with it. Pun intended. I did love hanging out with my brother from another mother. My sister's husband and my doubles partner. After a few weeks of practice, I had acquired enough skill to hit a pretty good backhand and a decent forehand, but my serving technique wasn't so good. I could get by, so we figured a challenge was in order. Our first two victims were two old dudes. We thought "surely we could take these guys" They were older and slower than us. My partner was decked out with sweatbands on each wrist and one around his forehead. That was just accessorizing. The ensemble was meant to compliment his tucked in tennis shirt and his knee-high white sports socks. His fashion sense alone should have scared the old guys. The old guys must have gone to the same sports store because they dressed in a similar fashion. I wasn't quite as sporting as the old guys. A black track suit and a backward ball cap. I wasn't there to look pretty I was there to win.
Old school, new lessons.
My tennis partner often kids about being able to drink a large coffee while I run my ass off to make a play from the back court. He would ask mid-return if I had it, to which I'd say "yeah I got it" "I wouldn't want you to spill your coffee" I wore out a path in the back court. I wore out the knee of my track suit diving for a shot too. It never occurred to me that road rash could happen on a tennis court. I was making a new fashion statement, and it wasn't a good one. Surprise, these old farts were pretty darn good.
I'm no McEnroe. Maybe a little
I am a perfectionist, and I will admit I demand a lot out of myself. Me getting mad at hitting a bad serve seemed to piss off the old Italian guy. I knew he was upset because he kept repeating my name "Dennis, Dennis" which just pissed me off more. Thankfully, his partner just ignored me. We were getting our asses kicked by two old geezers. I tried to compose myself and instead of trying for ace, I tired to just get the darn ball over the net but that just made it easier for them to make us look like a couple of chumps. These old farts could put that ball anywhere they wanted. I ran my ass off. Speed didn't help us. Hope didn't help us. Despair was our only option. When the game had finished, we shook hands and parted. It was then that we noticed the license plate on the dynamite duos car. 10S PRO. Tennis Pro.
Fuzzy yellow balls
There is nothing like prying open a can of fresh fuzzy yellow balls. I must admit I have smelt many of these balls, fresh out of the can but never after playing with them, that's just gross.
Hard cold and not so fuzzy or yellow balls
We were determined to get better no matter what and no matter what included no matter what weather. We used to go every Sunday to Weston Park. I know tennis is usually a three-season sport but not for my bro and I. Luckily, he had connections and had a spare net delivered to the court. Winter tennis. Why not? Most of the court was free of snow and ice. At least my side was. His side was mostly clear with one small exception. A small circular ice patch. My brother didn't want to exercise too much and asked that I would hit the ball to him. I tired but that ice patch kept getting in the way. It's amazing what a tennis ball will do when it hits ice. Occasionally he would return my serve but when my backhand spinner hit the ice let's just say it was a different outcome. Apparently, he was there for exercise I was there to win. At whatever cost.
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