As In Tennis...As In Life

I didn’t want it.  But, had no choice.

Dad was clear.  “It’s girly.  For sissies.  Not men.”

“I’ll get him his racket,” Grandpa Godbey said.  You didn’t argue with Grandpa.  

Grandpa and I didn’t talk on the five-mile drive to the old, disheveled Mountain View Sports store in La Canada, California.  Neither of us usually talked much anyway.  We had a special bond, though.  I was his first grandson and namesake: Dexter.   

It was Mid October 1960.  Cobalt blue sky. I wore a sweater.  I was 13.  Going to pick out my first tennis racket.  

We were in Grandpa’s ancient, red, Ford pickup.  Grandma hated that truck.

Grandpa knew everything about concrete work and fishing.   Nothing, though, about tennis or tennis rackets.  Me neither.

In my 7th-grade gym class, we tried every sport for two weeks.  Which is why I needed a racket.

“This one’s perfect,” the clerk with blond hair as disheveled as the store said.  He presented it to me, handle first.  Like presenting a magic sword to a Knight.

My palms were sweating.  My stomach trampolining.  

When I took the handle, though, everything settled down.  It fit. It felt right. Natural. Like the first time Grandpa handed me his pocket knife and taught me to whittle an oak branch into a point.  

It was a Wilson.  Tony Trabert Model.  I liked how the light bounced off the smooth, shiny wood.  And how they got the strings into graph paper lines.  

I also liked that Grandpa cared enough to take me and buy it for me.   

Heading back to the pickup, I carried my racket with my chest out and chin high.  

The racket enhanced our bond.   

Grandpa took my hand.  “I love you,” he said uncharacteristically.

“Me, too,” I said.   

As in tennis...as in life…

Then, at 53, my palms were sweating again.  I was nervous as hell. 

It was forty years after my sweaty palms first touched a tennis racket.  The Tony Trabert Grandpa got me.  

It was cold for September.  The sky a gray blanket.  The air thick.  Wet.

It was the first round of the Pacific Southwest Championships at Palisades Tennis Club in Newport Beach, California.  

I was on at 9:00 AM.  Center Court.  “The Show Court.”   

People were gathering.  The excitement was as thick as the overcast. Not for me.  For my opponent.    

Robyn Ray played on scholarship at the University of Arizona.  Then for several years on the ATP Pro Tour, including the French Open, the U.S. Open, and Wimbledon.

I hadn’t touched a racket since junior high gym class until I’d started playing for real three years earlier.        

I’m a realist.  Robyn was a pro.  I was barely a beginner.  He’d been playing competitively for 40 years.  This was my third.  He’d only lost a couple of  Senior Matches.  I’d lost multitudes.  He was used to playing for crowds.  My wife had come to one of my matches.  That was enough for her.

My chance of winning was less than zero.  But, I set a bold goal to hold serve twice.  Plus, I had a Delusional Fantasy of breaking Robyn once...if he double-faulted a few times in one game.  

Robyn is one of the nicest humans you’ll ever meet.  It’s why I play Seniors.  The guys are fierce, fair warriors on-court.  Gentlemen off-court.  

Robyn won easily.  I’m honored to have played him.

I played the best match of my life.  I was in the Zone.  I surpassed my goal and Delusional Fantasy, holding three times and breaking twice. 

And, I won, too.  Proudly.  I scored a “Win Within a Loss.”  

Shaking hands after the match, I thought, “Great people.  Realistic expectations.”  

As in tennis...as in life...

2020 was “The Year of Covid.”

It was one of my best.

I was 73.  My daughters, Vanessa and Chelsea, were 41 and 38.

At 10, they each chose tennis as “their sport.”  I didn’t influence them.  At that point, I hadn’t picked up a racket since my Tony Trabert in Jr. High.     

Vanessa and Chelsea played the Junior Tournament Circuit.  Also at Newport Harbor High in Newport Beach, California. Then on to college tennis at UCSB and UCLA.

They inspired me.  I started playing for real at 50.

When they were playing Juniors and High School, I had to beg them to grace me with a hit once in a while.  They usually declined.  They didn’t have much tolerance for my inconsistency and lack of power.

After high school, I never hit with them again.

Until the Year of Covid.  Which is why it’s special.    

Vanessa and some girlfriends had signed up for a clinic.  I was visiting her in San Clemente, California.  She asked me to hit with her to prepare for the clinic.  Vanessa hadn’t played for 20 years. 

We went to the park.  Blue sky.  No clouds.  No wind.  No sweaty palms for a change.  Within five minutes she was hitting as well as she did in college.

Later that year I was dog-sitting for Vanessa over Thanksgiving.  Chelsea joined me for four days of dad-daughter alone time.  She’d asked me to bring my racket and hit with her while she was there.  

We went to the park.  Dry palms.  Chelsea regularly hit with pros at the Bakersfield Racquet Club.  She was the Managing Director.  No surprise she played better than she did at UCLA.

They both said virtually the same thing as we walked off the courts holding hands.  “Dad, that was so fun. I love playing with you. I really miss it. Can we please do it again?  I love you.”

“Me, too,” I said.  

The circle completed.

As in tennis...as in life....