My son and I belong to one of those haughty swim and tennis clubs. Not only is my son a gifted tennis player, he is also an amazing swimmer, so we’re getting our money’s worth.
I, however do not swim at our club. No one needs to see that. So while my son swims, I run on a treadmill, shredding my unnecessary calories in the hopes that one day I can respectfully fit into a swimsuit without causing much trauma, or making it on the local news.
Long before he could tie his shoes, my son was holding a tennis racket. In full disclosure he didn’t tie his shoes until seventh or eighth grade, and even then, did so in protest until we discovered sneakers with Velcro flaps to save him from such arduous effort and the focus of lacing up.
I started playing tennis in the park in Ottawa, Ohio, when I was 8, with a cracked wooden racket. Over the next 52 years, I managed to keep a racket handy just in case a match were ever to break out, through the stress fractures to my shins, iliotibial band syndrome, torn meniscuses to the knee, a heel bone shattered in seven pieces, a hernia, and broken ankle. Luckily not all at once.
There were gaps in those years where I didn’t play much tennis, yet I kept that racket, just like my guitar. But you never want to bring a guitar to a tennis match, or a tennis racket to a guitar match, trust me.
I’ve had my share of interesting locations where I have played tennis, not the least of which was on the roof of a high-rise apartment building in New York City during a first date with a woman we shall call “Terry,” since that was her name. Are you supposed to let your date win? I did not. There was not a second date with “Terry.”
My first time playing on a clay court was in the Berkshires, in western Massachusetts, at a resort called The Cranwell. It was heavenly. I recall telling myself, “When I get very rich, I’m going to have my own clay court.” I do not have a clay tennis court yet, but I did have a coffee mug made from clay that read, “The Cranwell.”
Up until recently, I could smoke my son on the tennis courts, should I so desire. In his early teens there were nights under the lights, our favorite time to play, where I would let him get close, but I always felt it was best not to let him win it all. Give him hope, encouragement, coaching, but let him understand in the end, you gotta’ earn it, so if and when that day comes where you do snatch the pebble from the master’s hand, it will mean something. My son is not a participation ribbon kind of kid.
Then two months ago, under the lights in Lebanon Ohio, on a humid Sunday evening, my 16-year-old son kicked his 60-year-old dad up and down the court, the likes of which I have never experienced before. I knew this day, or night, would come, the family tennis crown would be passed down, or passed up in this case, since he’s also taller than me. For some reason I thought there would be more hoopla, an audience for this moment, at least a distant trumpet playing as I limp off the court in slow motion, bruised and bloodied, to one final standing ovation.
I wish I had one more year of Dad tennis superiority, but perhaps the timing is perfect. Maybe this is exactly what he needs, the one who beat him all those years is now his second, as he prepares for his senior year of tennis next spring.
Aside from our height and love for tennis, my son won’t admit we have anything else in common. For the most part I am an embarrassment to him. He’s a straight “A” student, and I was just lucky enough to recall my locker combination. But the one thing we do not argue about is our disdain for Pickle Ball.
All across the country, perfectly fine tennis courts are getting vandalized with tape or chalk to accommodate the playing dimensions of what is likely a fad. Who wants to participate in a sport where you use a paddle? A paddle! Apologies to ping pong players, no offense, you should use a paddle, not a racket. But the word “Pickle” is in this sport! Really? Have you no pride? Many a night my son and I sit on the hard concrete steps, waiting on this society of plastic ball smackers to wrap it up so we can reclaim this court for the sport with which it was intended.
Why did they even invent Pickle Ball? Was it some sort of evil wannabe sport to placate the aging tennis player still longing to be on the court, but their mighty serve is starting to have all the speed and power of an underhanded badminton swat, and their once lightning-quick sprint from the base line to the net now rivals the time taken for a mid-afternoon nap? Or, maybe it’s just a polite way for 16-year-olds to gently move their Dad along. Perhaps I’ll build my own Pickle Ball court, made of clay.
