Week 105 - The Tennis Story So I've been in New York about two years now. I've exercised twice. I hate the gym, man, and that late night walk home from the subway station doesn't really count, does it? I've been meaning to get back into tennis, which I haven't played in years, but the work-all-day, theatre-all-night schedule doesn't leave much time. Plus, last time I was on a tennis team, I was twelve, and the team mother would write a weekly newsletter to the parents, and in the newsletter she always advised the parents that children were NOT to wear in the matches whatever it was I had worn at the previous match. No Jams, no soccer shirts, no wet bathing suits, no soccer cleats - she was a tyrant. Anyway, I enjoy the sport despite its strict code of dress and so I decided that tennis would be my way to exercise. I decided I would make time.

I finally found a place to play - the only problem was, I didn't know anybody, and hitting against the backboard gets boring after a while. Well, turns out the tennis club has Twilight Tennis on Friday nights. I thought - great - it's right as the sun's going down - picturesque - it will be a super way to get to know people. So I went, and, turns out, I was 30 years younger than anyone else at Twilight Tennis, having overlooked the double meaning.

So I was partnered with a 65 year-old woman named Jo. But no problem, as it turns out: as we play, Jo is chasing down balls, serving consistently, and holding her own. We're doing OK. My game is a little rusty, so this is a good way to warm-up.

But the problem is, we're getting our butts kicked, and I tire quickly of getting my butt kicked, especially in any sports-related activity.
So eventually it's my turn to serve, and I decide to turn up the heat on our opponents. My serve can be pretty deadly when I get it in, so I decide to go for it.

I stare down Larry, the 55 year-old real-estate salesman, and my first serve is an ace. Larry didn't even get his racquet on it - it was awesome. Next up is Bill, 62, helluva heart surgeon. My second serve, ACE. The guy goes down looking. Third point, back to Larry, ACE. I am on fire. I am starting to gain notice from the other courts. People are starting to talk about the new kid. I'm one point from serving out a perfect game, and I know I got a doozy of a serve left in me. This shot is going to be hot. I toss the ball up nice and high, rear back, and the slam the ball right between Jo's shoulder blades.
Jo drops her racquet.
Jo stops breathing.
Let me repeat that. Jo stops breathing.
I know I have a tendency to spice up my weekly tales from time to time, but folks, today, I am not exaggerrating. There is no need. For, I, David Stott, have managed to knock the wind out of poor Jo FROM BEHIND. She's up at the net, her back to me, gasping and choking for air, and I run up to her, sputtering apologies, and she signals, no, no, get out of the way, don't touch me, DON'T TOUCH ME and I watch hopelessly until finally, finally, she breathes. She catches her breath. Can I get her some water? No, she doesn't want water. Can I get her a towel? No, she doesn't want a towel. She walks it off like a real trooper and I tell her I hope in the next game she will drill me at least twice in the back of the head. She says don't be silly, it happens.

But my game is gone. I play the rest of the set with a lot of caution, hitting lobs to Larry and Bill instead of topspin forehands, serving them grapefruits instead of aces.
I think back to that serve I drilled into my partner and I tell you folks, I couldn't have hit that serve any harder if I wanted to. Jo's going to have a bruise for a good long while.

After the game, Jo calls me over. "Dave, you're new here, right?"
"I am," I say.
"Are you having trouble making friends?"
"Yes," I say.
"Huh," she says.
She walks off.
I am, once again, alone with the backboard.  ¶ 10:03 PM