Tennis On My Mind

I’m not sure why, but tennis keeps infiltrating my mind I’ve watched tennis film documentaries and read tennis books. I see tennis metaphors everywhere. I haven’t played in years but want to pick up the game that was once a major part of my life.

In recent months, I’ve written about tennis in poetry, fiction and memoir. Here are some excerpts:

Poem:

Most of these courts are gone now,

gone to seed, skateparks and the smartphone,

They’re never coming back,

but I am grateful I met you that way.

Short Story:

Several weeks ago, Chet and Tricia had driven to Portland in her vintage brown Pinto and hit ten thrift stores and it had been the best fun time of his life. After three stops, patterns emerged: the stores were full of wooden tennis rackets, many screwed in their presses, and also full of tennis instruction books, many never opened. Further patterns emerged: one racket model dominated—the Jack Kramer Autograph; one instruction book dominated—The Inner Game of Tennis. Jack bought a Kramer in mint condition for $5 and a heavily annotated The Inner Game of Tennis for $1.

Chet barely cracked the book and was certain the it would not end up in his paper’s bibliography. But now, The Inner Game of Tennis rested in Chet’s hands during a changeover with Chet behind love-6, love-5. He opened it at random and read one of the underlined passages, “Observe how you feel if you fail.” He turned to another page, “Only when the mind is still is one’s peak performance reached.” Then another, “It is a painful process to fight one’s way out of a deep mental groove.” And finally, “Let the flower grow.”

Short story:

Once tennis reigned as America’s number one recreational sport. Now, it was pretty much dead all across the country. In the 70s, 35 million men and women took up the game, indoors, outdoors, city courts, private clubs, back yards, taking lessons, playing singles, doubles, mixed doubles, (oh the mixed doubles with strangers!) wearing shorts and skirts and panties, headbands, wristbands, velour pullovers, drinking white wine, smoking grass and swapping partners. Was there anything sexier in the history of American sporting life?

Memoir:

In my freshmen year, Oregon City belonged in the Wilco League with schools like Lakeridge, Lake Oswego, and Tigard, some of the best white collar tennis schools in the state. There was really no such thing as a best blue collar tennis school.

These schools had the best courts in the state, all newly surfaced with crisp nets. All their players were club members and played year round with professional coaches, traveling to matches around the region. All their players had multiple rackets and wore the finest Fila and Rossignol European apparel and tennis shoes. They had harems of teenage girls at their matches, where they routinely defeated us 6-0, 6-0 in 45 minutes or less, and that included the warm up. Once, the number one player from Tigard pulled up in a convertible sports car, an MG I think, and left the motor idling outside the court, won his match in a matter of minutes, and then drove away with his super model girlfriend, feathered hair somewhat blowing in the breeze.

It was a peculiar feeling getting your ass kicked every match, right out there in public, inside a galvanized fence. I did cry after one particular humiliation. There was just no way to beat them, let alone compete. They had it all and often laughed at us and our cheap gear and terrible form. I mean, we had player who whiffed first and second serves for the strangest double faults in tennis history!

Then, divine intervention from the merciful Gods of Tennis who wore nothing but all white. They surely saw us suffer and moved heaven and earth. It must have been Arthur Ashe, the compassionate graceful one, not the other American tennis assholes of my youth.

Oregon City switched leagues, out of the powerful old Wilco League and into the newly-established Timber Valley League. The Timber Valley League was comprised of rural Clackamas County timber and farming towns such as Molalla, Silverton, Estacada, Sandy, and Sweet Home.

Just like that, Oregon City was the best team in the league. I went something like 53-4 the next three years and made it to state my senior year, in doubles, where I choked in the first round, and never played competitive tennis again.

Memoir:

I used to play tennis with my dogs. We went through a lot of balls.

Memoir:

In high school, I took her on a date to play tennis, or rather I would try to teach her how to play tennis, and she whiffed on every single shot. I didn’t know if that was charming or a turn-off.

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