Creative Writing - History of??? - Hands Part 1 - Must Use Anchor Words, "I Remember" - As Part of Project -

 Written 12 Mar 21 - Transcribed 15 Mar 21

15 Minute timed - History of (body part) - Shaun uses feet - his Project is on running.  I choose hand (holding a tennis racket).  Must use Anchor Words - “I Remember” 

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I remember the beginning of one of my longest, most exciting, and intriguing relationships.

It was the first time I wrapped my hand around the handle of a tennis racket.

I was in 7th grade at La Canada Junior High School in La Canada, California. Patty Gunkel. Oh, how I loved Patty Gunkel in 7th grade.

In PE class, we had to sample lots of sports. The normals: Football, baseball, basketball, track. Then, also some of the less popular sports.  

Gymnastics, for example.  I remember the rope climb and pommel horse. I hated them both.

Also wrestling. Craig Hobson. Sweaty bodies intertwined in mortal combat. I hated it too. And wasn't very fond of Craig, either. He had a natural wrestler’s body. Stocky. Strong. To mine...thin and willowy. I never stood a chance.

And, tennis.

I needed a tennis racket for The Tennis Sports Sampler. My grandpa Godbey wanted to take me to the sporting goods store and buy one for me. 

I don't remember why Grandpa, of all people. We were close, me and Grandpa.  We had a special bond.  I was named after him.  And, I was his first grandson.  

Grandpa was a big man. His enormous hands were calloused. Hard. Tough. Like stiff blocks of leather. There was no softness to them.  No meat. Just decades old hard muscle covered in calluses built by decades of a hard life of construction. Concrete work. 

Grandpa built his own successful concrete company from scratch. He started with a single wheelbarrow, shovel, and old, used, hand-cranked cement mixer. 

I remember Grandpa was thick. Solid, though.  Without an ounce of fat. He didn't talk much. He taught me how to camp out.  Pitch a tent.  Build a fire. Fish.  Clean a fresh trout.  Cook it.  Eat it.  Whittle a stick into a point.

Grandpa gave me my first pocket knife. I was six or seven. I remember my mom freaking out about me carrying a knife around. I don't remember if Grandpa gave her one of those stairs of his. Like John Wayne in the old westerns. He just looked at the bad guys and they'd give up.

Or, maybe Grandpa said something to Mom. Something like, “Boy’s gotta have a knife if he's going to be a man.”  That's the kind of thing he'd say. Either way, Mom never said a word about it again.

And, I've had a pocket knife in my pocket ever since.

There we were in the La Canada Sporting Goods store in my hometown, La Canada, California.  Me and Grandpa. Neither with the first clue about tennis or tennis rackets.

I remember I was about to wrap my seventh-grade hand around the handle of my first tennis racket. I was excited. The racket was wood.  Smooth.  Wilson.  A Tony Trabert Model.  I took hold and smiled.  I don’t remember why.  But I remember I did.

Now, 60 years later, now playing high-level competitive tennis four or five days a week, I can't wrap my hand around the handles of my rackets without remembering, at least for a flash, consciously or unconsciously, that first time. 

I remember that day...that first time.  Me and my grandpa.