The Tennis Curmudgeon


Rude Players

It was a beautiful day around the homestead. The sun cracking through the trees, pansies pleasantly filling the air, children gleefully romping in the distance. Gazing over our vast lawn, my sense full of the days beauty, I say,

“I’d better get out of here before my beloved bride wakes up and hands me a list of chores.”

So I threw a couple of new cans. . .ah, cans, another great invention gone the way of blue blocker sunglasses. I threw another plastic. . .that sounds so stupid. I threw fuzzy yellow spheroid containers into my bag and wended my way toward the courts.

There’s something magical about heading to the courts for the day. Thoughts about the purity you are about to experience. The opportunities that abound.

Maybe I’ll slide into that elusive zone to play the match of my life.

Will today be the day all my hard work comes together and my backhand flows effortlessly?

Could my approach shots clip the line at perfect angles causing every volley I hit unreturnable?

Everything that is perfect about this game is right in front of my as I survey the vast levels of abilities on the court. As I open the gate I have one last thought,

“Please don’t let me trip over a ball like last time.”

And it wasn’t even my ball!

Bobby and I were locked in a heated battle. He took the first set 6-0. Me the second 6-0. The third was locked up at love. I was serving at 30-0 when I decided to pull out all the stops and take my strength to his. So I hit my blistering first serve wide into his forehand and approached the net. Bobby moved a moment late and surprised me by returning what should have been an ace.

Instead of that thought I should have been watching his return which sailed over my head. So I get on my horse to chase it down.

With eyes skyward lasered on the ball I was unaware the court next to us had rolled another ball into our court. But, fortunately, as the ball was descending, out of my still capable peripheral vision, I noticed it. I’m telling you, I’da bout had a fit. We’d had so many of their balls on our court you’d have thought their court was facing east-west.

I was able to step around the errant ball but what I didn’t see, until the last second, was the adult running into our court toward the ball. Now what could he have been thinking? Nothing! That’s what! That’s what’s wrong with people these days. They don’t have the sense one puts in a new borns piggy bank.

Fortunately for both of us, because he sure as hell wasn’t watching where he was going, I was able to stop short. Which is when I stepped on his ball and landed on my keister.

“Hey,” he called over his shoulder. “You almost fell on my ball!”

It’s things like this that make me wish I’d been born rich instead of incredibly employable. Because I’d have my own court and we;d have decorum, dammit!

‘Til next time, may your forehands land deep and your backhands full of pace,

Dennis

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2 Comments so far
Leave a comment

We shoulda told them they were lucky we didn’t kick them in the balls.

“Ya want yer balls back, do ya? well, how you like your balls stuffed into your mouth?”

Comment by Bobby

And here you are, ladies and gentlemen, another reason the sport is turning into the roller derby.

But you do have an, ah, interesting viewpoint about the game, Bobby. So maybe you’d like to submit something to the site?

Comment by boundandgags




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