Bad Bounces

Bad bounces happen in the game of tennis. Especially on clay, especially on public tennis courts, and on a very consistent bases in Central Park. The tennis ball sometimes hits a previous mark on the court and bounces funny, or often doesn't bounce at all. These situations are kind of a pain in the ass, really. What can you do? I guess you could get pissed off, if you were so inclined. But the game moves forward and what goes around comes around. Bad bounces are just part of the game. 

That Inner Child

"He was trying to hit me with the ball!" The guy barks, in a kind of raspy lisp. Whimpering with fret, like a baby without his nipple. "He was trying to hit me with the ball," the guy barks again. I listen with amusement, trying not to laugh. "He was trying to it me on purpose," the guy barks yet again. He squints, and turns red in the cheeks. Fired up with anger, caught in the middle of a temper tantrum. "He tried to hit me with the tennis ball and I don't want to play anymore." He whimpers, almost crying now. Feeling violated and hurt. I start laughing out loud. I can't help myself. Sometimes, tennis brings out that inner child in people, and not in a good way.

An Hours Not Enough

Having only an hour to play tennis really sucks. It's one of the big problems of playing a  match in Central Park. Unless you clean your opponent's clock, or get cleaned, an hours not enough. There's often an inconclusive residue hovering over a match's merit. Many times, having a draw really feels like a loss. But then again, does it really always matter? I don't think so. The best thing you can do is what I do. Find the off hours, where landing a court for more than an hour has some decent odds. Sure, it's Central Park, so you better be crafty, and lucky. But if you play things correctly, you may just get to finish your match. But then again, if you play things correctly, an hour should be enough time to finish that match. 

Conditioning

Conditioning plays a large part towards building a tennis game. I have to be in shape. In fact, this might be the main point of playing tennis for most. The older that I become, the more that I realize my body ages, especially on the tennis court. Those aches and pains creep into my life with a little more throb. Sometimes, I just hurt. I guess that I should work on conditioning outside of just playing tennis. Somehow, I never get around to this. It seems like I only have time to hit that little, yellow tennis ball. 

I Pick My Moments

I'm cagey. I pick my moments on the tennis court. Match points, I call them, and not at the end of a tennis match. These are points that turn the tide, points that swing momentum. These are also the points where the game changes. Where the game disintegrates into a loss. I'm cagey. I pick my moments. I realize which points dictate a tennis match. 

True Bliss

The air remains still, the skies are beautiful, and the sun spreads upon the horizon. Where's the dark skies and gray clouds spitting rain and mess like they predicted? The weather's perfect. I can already feel myself hitting that little, yellow tennis ball with a nice sweat and not a care in the world. I see my opponent stretching for that perfect shot that I just hit. I again look into the expansive blue. Today remains a perfect day for playing tennis. I head towards Central Park for nothing but true bliss. That is, until I realize that I'm going to have to wait all day for a tennis court. 

Doubles and Real Estate

There's value in doubles. The game of doubles creates extra real estate. Two parcels of land run down both sides of the tennis court. In singles, these parcels represent nothing more than an easement. Two strips of land with lines and borders, but without any value. But in doubles, the alley creates more space. The alley becomes part of the game. An extra player creates extra real estate in the game of tennis. In New York City, real estate has value. Doubles is simply worth more than singles, because of the real estate. 

Tennis and Rain

I'm restless this morning. My tennis match starts this afternoon, but I'm ready to play now. I move around my apartment in anticipation. I pull out my tennis racket and start practicing in my living room. I hit fictitious forehands and backhands without the ball, careful not to break anything. I swing my racket, careful not to hit a lamp, or a picture, or anything of value. Outside my living room, dark clouds begin to form. I practice forehands and backhands because there's not room to practice my serve. Outside, the rain begins to fall. A dark sky comes to fruition. I'm restless and ready. Rain begins to fall and tennis in my living room becomes all the tennis that I get today. 

Even in the Winter

The Central Park tennis courts remain mostly barren in the winter. The tennis nets are removed and empty courts just sit. The tides of cold and nasty weather pass through New York City. The crown jewel of the public courts takes a break. The vast majority of tennis players are forced inside. The cold compels them. Only four tennis courts are kept open in Central Park. Four of twenty-eight are kept with their nets, ready for winter play, no matter how cold. A small group of players seem to always play these four tennis courts. A tough group, without the usual hang-ups regarding nasty weather. Even in the winter, tennis players converge, and tennis continues in Central Park. 

A Bruised Ego

I lose the first set pretty quick and feel a little pissed. My ego doesn't bruise real well. Between changeovers, I ask my opponent how much money he has on him. "Eighty bucks," he says. "You're on," I tell him. Despite having already dropped the opening set, I'm ready to raise the stakes. My game has yet to show, and I'm not sure if it ever will. But with a little money on the line, I have to play better, right? Time to bring my real game and take this chump. And then I continue to miss here, and miss there, and play like crap. I quickly lose the second set and the match. I lose eighty bucks. My real game never comes close to showing. My bruised ego is now poor. 

The White Tape

The ball stops dead at the top of the net and then trickles onto the other side. Sorry, I say to my opponent, out of instinct. Sorry for what, I'm not sure. I'll take this point. The tennis ball did fall on his side of the court. I'll take this point all day long. I serve the ball and my opponent wallops his return with an aggressive stroke. The white tape catches the ball with that distinct crack. The little, yellow tennis ball then trickles over onto my side. I shake my head in disgust. What a cheap shot.

Over the fence

The tennis ball sailed into the sky. Rising higher and higher into the expansive blue. I prepare myself. I squint into the sun, getting ready. The tennis ball begins to fall towards me. It's coming my way. I prepare myself. I pull my racket back and move my feet into place. The balls coming close now. I decide not to let it land. I decide to take it early and put this point away. I shuffle my feet and squint into the sun. I move the racket forward with a snap. The ball ricochets off my strings. It explodes off my racket. The tennis ball sails through the air. Back, back, back and over the fence and into the park, never to be seen again.

The Perfect Game

I opened an empty locker in the Central Park locker room and a Genie appeared. He said to me, I've been trapped in this locker for a thousand years. For releasing me, I will grant you any wish. I looked at the Genie, thinking of the smells he must have experienced in a thousand years trapped in this locker room. I didn't hesitate. Genie, I want the perfect tennis game. I'm looking for something more than just a perfect backhand. I want a perfect forehand too. And then, I want a huge serve. I need to volley like a king. I want the perfect drop shot, for those special times. My service return had better be a monster, and off of both sides. The Genie looked at me and smiled. He granted me my wish. My name is Roger Federer.

I Hate this Game

I can't hit the ball in. The tennis court has some sort of force field, which repels the tennis ball. And now, the tennis net is getting in the way. My feet don't work and my mind... Well, I don't know where my mind is. I should have stayed home. I can't do anything right. I'm getting killed, and I'm not having fun. I hate this game. 

Central Park Tennis Stringers

I like to hit the tennis ball fairly hard and very frequently. Subsequently, I break tennis strings on a regular basis. The Racket Shop in Central Park hosts a motley crew of tennis stringers, who are each very unique and highly qualified. They string tennis rackets with visionary brilliance. They take the science of tennis stringing to another level. They lecture about hybrids and nylons and whatnot. They spew technical mumbo jumbo that just becomes too much for even my limited capacity. Tennis stringing needs to be kept in a small fraternity of experts, kind of like the staff in the Central Park Racket Shop. They hover over their tennis racket stringers, working diligently, making sure every racket finds it's way back onto the court. Always busy, always willing to break into a longwinded diatribe about the latest string technology. These are dedicated professionals, and technicians. There to back tennis players like me, and help me play better tennis. 

Keep Your Balls Off of My Court

I'm out playing tennis in Central Park and the guy playing next to me keeps hitting his tennis ball into my court. Now, I'm easy going. Well, sort of easy going. I mean lets have some common decency here. Keep your tennis ball off my court. Okay, I know sometimes the ball just happens to trickle over. I'm okay with that. But when you keep hitting your ball into my court, time and time again, it gets kind of old. I'm easy going. Well, sort of easy going. Just keep your tennis ball off of my court, if you can. That's all I ask. Try and play better, please. 

Doubles and Human Backboards

Sometimes, I play doubles just for fun. I really prefer to play singles. But every once in a while, on a lark, I play doubles. I found some retired teachers that play a mean game of doubles. Talk about maximizing athletic potential. These guys are like human backboards. Nothing pretty, but the ball always stays in play. I can never put the ball away. Every shot I make finds it's way back. Eventually, I start forcing play. Basic mental management entails never becoming impatient. But I am impatient, sometimes. And sometimes, I invite errors. These retired teachers maximize their pensions and early retirement playing on the public courts. They put themselves out to pasture in Central Park, focusing on tennis, of course. 

Slow Starter

I'm a notoriously slow starter on the tennis court. Sometimes, I don't even feel my limbs until I'm down a set. Even with an extensive warm-up period, I still struggle out of the gate. Sometimes, I start so slow, that by the time I'm ready to play, it's time for me to go. My game cranks like an old car. Starting very slowly at first, and giving off a lot of emissions. With a nice gurgle of burning crude, and several spouts of bad air, I'm ready to play. All of this represents many lost games and much mental anguish. I don't know why I'm a notoriously slow starter on the tennis court. 

Love Forty and the Comeback

I'm down love forty to this young kid who has some real game. I reach for my towel and wipe off my sweat. Perspiration slides down my face, from thick humidity of a hot afternoon. I wipe myself off and get back to being down love forty. I bounce the ball and serve, smacking the line for a service ace. I again wipe my face with a towel. I bounce the ball and serve again, smacking the line, for yet another service ace. I wipe down again, feeling like I'm on a roll. I bounce the tennis ball and serve. I'm now gaining real confidence. The ball lands in and it's not a service ace, but the dead duck my opponent hits back, I easily put away. Now it's forty all. I have changed the momentum. I am back in the game. The young kid has let me off of the ropes. He lets me breath. I bounce the tennis ball and serve. The young kid rockets a forehand well out of my reach. I wipe down with the towel, one more time. I bounce the tennis ball and serve. I have a premonition, I visualize it before it happens. And then I double fault and lose the game.

What a Jerk

The tennis ball lands in the net. A husband screams, "You tramp." His loud blast ripples around the very, public tennis courts. I can't believe that I'm hearing this, I mean this is supposed to be a gentleman's game. Here this man yells at his wife for missing a forehand. Like she did this on purpose. He's grumbling around the court, somehow having missed the meaning of tennis on a beautiful afternoon. What kind of idiot spews abuse towards his wife over a missed forehand? How can a man treat his wife this way? Play resumes, and the husband and wife grumble around the court. He holds that sourpuss frown of frustration, not even looking at his wife. She kicks the tennis court, chastising herself for missing such an easy shot, but mostly for marrying such a jerk. 

Business on the Tennis Court

My blackberry's rolling like a roller coaster. There's ten minutes before my court's available. I'm trying to sell a painting before my match. I send a series of emails containing a counter offer and terms of the sale. I'm picking up shipping, of course. I think that I've bent sufficiently to "close the deal." I know the client loves this painting. I know his wife simply has to have it on their wall. And I know they can afford this painting on their wall. There's nothing better than getting the deal done courtside. I am now able to fully concentrate on my tennis match. I have several other business deals to finalize after my tennis match. Despite the sluggish economy, I still have business too accommodate. I have much to finalize before my afternoon match. 

Big Money Game

I'm playing doubles in the North Bronx. These gruff, older woman are playing on the court next door. Only a nylon screen seperates our courts. I think to myself that this may not be enough, these woman look real tough, the kind of tough where you mind your P's and Q's. The play next door seems real intense, also. I don't see any humor or emotion or fun, for that matter. My partner comes to me between points, having noticed what I've been noticing. "Tough crowd, don't you think?" He says to me, motioning towards the tough, old broads. "I think it's a big money game," I say. With the level of seriousness that I'm seeing, I think these women are playing tennis for a lot of money.

Tennis Court Traffic Jam

Some days, I sit in Central Park for hours waiting for a court. Many times, the wait for a court parallels whichever tournament is being played by the ATP tour. Obviously, the big tournaments relate directly to a nice spike in tennis players looking for a match. The French, Wimbledon, and the US. Open tournaments all translate to an abundance of players and a real shortage of court availability here in New York City. The US. Open, which is actually held here in New York, creates complete chaos. Central Park becomes like a tennis court traffic jam, you can sit all day long waiting. Personally, I create my schedule based upon being able to walk into a match fairly easily. But some days, I just get stuck. 

Timing and the No-Show List

I play it cool. I know that I'm three down on the "no-show list." That second rate list for the banished, those not worthy of a court in Central Park. Actually, it's all about timing, all of it. You either have it, or you don't. I know that I'm three down on the "no-show list." I just play it cool, my chances are good. And then I hear my name over the loud speaker. I head towards the tennis shack, having secured what I want. It's all about timing, all of it, you either have it, or you don't. 

A Bad Call Rectified

I took a deep breath and hesitated for a second. I knew the serve had landed in, he knew the serve had landed in, the big spot in the clay makes it pretty obvious. I take another deep breath. I shake-off the bad call. What else can I do, I mean the guy should change his call, but he's not. I bounce the ball several times, concentrating. I toss the ball into the air, bend my knees, step and catch the ball in full extension. That distinct "thwap" sounds, as my racket makes contact. The ball sails towards the far right corner of the service box and lands in, he hits back an off-balance forehand return, a dead duck sailing through the air. I step in, one, two, three steps and stop. I keep my balance and lay the racket out, stepping into a forehand volley. I strike the ball crisp, and there's that distinct "thwap" sound again. He can't reach my shot, he doesn't deserve to reach my shot. His bad call has been rectified. 

Sometimes, It Just all Goes

Fluid grace of a beautiful tennis game transforms into a bumbling, lethargic, void between the ears. Sometimes, the wheels just come off, and there's nothing that can be done. I trip and stumble, I don't think about what I am doing. What am I doing? I'm losing of course, and not slowly. Sometimes, I can't even feel my hands, which are holding a racket, which feels like an iron skillet. My tennis game systematically shuts down. Dismantled upon a tripped domino falling upon another domino, and so on. Bumbling and stumbling around the court, without any direction, trying to become grounded, but unable to grasp even the most basic concepts of tennis. Sometimes, it just all goes.

Riding to Roosevelt Island

I enjoy riding the tram out to Roosevelt Island. When I first moved to New York City, the transition was almost unbearable. I had lived many years, where I rode a Gondola to the top of a mountain nearly every winter morning. I needed this ride out to Roosevelt Island. The tram would rise into the sky, above the East River and all of Manhattan and Queens. Looking all the way down towards Brooklyn. The tram would then lowers itself, dropping me directly at the front door of the tennis club. Helping to ease my rough transition, reminding me of my most familiar. 

Make Do with What You've Got

I was watching a match out in Brooklyn not too long ago. There were some young kids playing doubles on a makeshift court in Williamsburg. I think that the court was more parking lot than a legitimate tennis court. It did have a net and some lines, although there were so many weeds growing out of cracks and crevices, that trying to figure what was in and out didn't seem so easy. But the young kids didn't seem to mind. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, a good day for some doubles. I guess the precedent says that you, "make do with what you've got." 

Arrests on the Tennis Court

The Police came out onto the tennis courts last week. Apparently, there was an altercation between players. Apparently, one of the players became agitated and threw his racket into the net. Throwing a racket is never good. In this case the player heaved a racket, missing the net and nailing his opponent on the other side. Apparently, this didn't go over so well. Luckily, the Police were able to resolve the situation. Both players were arrested. Nothing ever good becomes of throwing a tennis racket. File this away somewhere. 

Move the Short Ball to the Outside

I like to move the short ball to the outside. I like to take a little pace off of my stroke, rolling a little topspin on the ball. I move in behind the short ball, cutting off the angles of return, while keeping my opponent out of position. I apply pressure and control the point. It's going to take a low percentage, super-shot to beat me. I play the short ball to the outside and put myself in a position to win.