“We’re about to get started,” I said. “So …”
I didn’t have to add shuffle off to Buffalo
for the Qigong-er to get the gist.
“Why do you have to play on this court?” he asked. Implying:
Couldn’t we just hit on the open court next to the one he had claimed?
How far back do you want me to go? I thought to myself.
Prior to the resurface? Before the bioswales?
(I wasn’t here for it—wasn’t even born yet—
but someone should tell him about the day
Arthur Ashe came to play.)
Instead of engagement, I judged the combative spiritualist
unworthy of the story’s long version. I answered him curtly: “
This is where we usually play tennis.”
“This is where we usually do Qigong,” he volleyed back.
I see. He, too, was part of a we. Yes, I started to recognize,
he was the group’s instructor. The instructor paused,
bit his lip, could not resist escalation.
“You people are neurotic!”
I felt proud to be associated with whoever the “you people” were—
others who had asked him to get off the court? I sent a wobbly half
volley back: “Qigong, huh? I’d be curious to … learn more about that.”
“You could use some!”
* * *
Farewell to the rainbow coalition that’s been on these courts since at least the 1960s. Farewell to our multiracial, multilingual, multigenerational, socioeconomically diverse tennisocracy—rare anywhere, and rare as The Devil’s cognac-soaked signature steak here in Portland, Oregon.
We were never quite a democracy, ‘cause there was royalty, and we were too cool to vote. And it wasn’t anarchy either, as much as we pretended it to be; we adhered to the customs of the sport.
If you’re passing by, look for our remnants scattered across the courts—out there with the dog walkers, pickleballers, nannies and roller skaters. We still get on to hit. Two here, four there.
But there’s nothing quite like playing the game all together.
Everyone can do whatever they want, people tell themselves, so they don’t have to acknowledge the reality:
when we all do whatever we want,
no one’s doing much of anything at all.