I’ve taken to tennis again.
Perhaps I should thank COVID-19 for this since we’ve lived in this neighborhood for several years, but didn’t bother to play tennis or pickleball until the plague came to town.
Granted, I curse a lot more than most of the folks around me. Well, most of them don’t curse at all on the courts. I think there are actual rules against it, but until someone chews me out, I’ll keep cursing on auto pilot.
This does not come as a surprise (the tennis or the cursing) to my family, who were forced to listen to me hitting balls against the garage in fair weather boredom as a child. I watched so many matches on TV and wanted to learn to play well, but those options are limited when your hometown has two cement courts and average temps below freezing several months a year. Plus, if memory serves (WACKA, WACKA), the summer rec tennis “coach” was an overweight band teacher.
It was certain no one was going to move me to California or Florida where I could play all the time and be the next Jennifer Capriati (I followed her lead later in more accessible ways), so I focused on the stuff that was available like volleyball and basketball.
Vonnegut is upset at the betrayal of human-use only tennis balls. He’s a sensitive boi. And I’m still rocking the $40 Costco racquet, so I don’t think I’ve completely lost my working class creds.
The fun part is learning things over and trying to get rid of bad habits on the things I never learned correctly. Grips, man, and I certainly get yelled at a lot about follow-through. I’ve even managed to be the live example whilst learning how to volley—you really do need to keep the racquet out in front of you. The ball can really go sideways and hit you in the face. Really.
No social lives have been harmed. I didn’t even get a bloody nose out of it.