It’s an odd group. Then again, aren’t they all?
Alex is mathematical. He claims the analytics tell you it doesn’t pay to back off the second serve. It’s futile arguing with him. He’ll respond to the tenth decimal point and likely pull the statistical references from his racquet bag. Predictably, he tape measures the height of every net. Less so, he’s the loudest grunter of the group. The thing I admire most about Alex is he loses virtually all the time without noticing. It’s not like he doesn’t care if he loses, like he’s just in it for the fun. That would make sense. This is harder to figure. For all his computational acumen, he just doesn’t seem to realize that, mathematically speaking, he’s the partner you never want to draw.
Then there’s Kyle. Damn him, he’s actually improving. Most of us will have our uncharacteristic glory days but quickly slip back into our finely honed senior citizen mediocrity. Kyle has added a nasty kick serve to an unpredictable array of slices, junk spin and drop shots. This was not supposed to happen. Kyle is cut furthest from the tennis mold. “Quirky” puts it charitably. He plays in standard-issue Old Navy cargo shorts paired with a weighty Goodwill hoodie ready, it seems, for whatever the thermometer reads. He’s got all sorts of crap in his pockets. Notes to himself. A phone. Some gizmo to count his steps. Bird seed wouldn’t surprise me. He plays in a bit of a fog. He’ll stop mid-game and check his appointment calendar. Kyle’s particular irony is this: he really likes to win, and he’ll push the boundaries of over-celebration, but he never actually knows what the score is.
T. J. is, well, everyone knows a T. J. He’s the invisible chess-club kid who found his competitive ninja, middle age, on the tennis court. He mainlines YouTube videos on court positioning. He sneaks in clandestine lessons. He has a library of strategic absolutes; he conferences between points, as if we actually had the ability to execute his three-shots-ahead vision. He’s thin and wiry. He poaches relentlessly and hops around peripatetically at the net. You so want to pass him, or scorch one into his abdominals, but mostly you just succumb. His antics turn your normal swing into a wristy spasm of frustrated ire. With his ascension from pocket-protector dork to one of the guys, he also trash talks actively, if not well.
Me? I’m a mixed blessing. Ever the cheerleader, I’m quickest with an encouraging word, parceling out “great shot” and “no worries” generously, as if they were stocking stuffers. On the other hand, I own the trophy for marginal racket abuse and excess theatrics. If I could only see myself, I’d never want to see myself. I posses a nasty cross-court topspin laser followed by a flag of surrender. Plan Bs are for wimps and overachievers.
Our foursome is actually a crew of seven or so. Dave, Carlos, Andy and Jonesy rotate in. After one match, Dave brought up a recent study comparing the life-extending benefits of various activities. You probably know it. In the eternal darkness of Covid, we clung to any light we could find. It concluded that tennis players outlive more likely aerobic superstars such as runners, swimmers and cyclists by a healthy margin (by about 90 years, in Dave’s highly embellished version). Why? Sociability. It’s the networks, my motley 7:30 a.m. congregation included, that matter.
I use the term “sociability” loosely. I don’t really know these guys. I’m not sure I want to. A few tidbits, on changeovers, slip out and blindside you. Andy was in Vietnam. Dave, who knew, is a retired surgeon. One guy works shifts at Dollar Tree. Somebody’s in recovery from something. They are friends, strangers, curiously anonymous, known mostly by the quirks of their game.
Sometimes, though, I wonder: Do they like me? Do they think I’m any good? I regret to report one lesson the years confirm: life is high school on perpetual loop. The eternal questions endure.
Finally, a confession. The people and incidents portrayed above are real. The names have been changed lest it jeopardize my spot in the rotation. I need these guys. I need this game. Like the longevity study and the old song says: all my livelong days.