Anything Close to the Line is Out

I'm warming up before my tennis match with an unfamiliar opponent. He gets out the line sweeper to clean the lines of our tennis court. I tell him,"I don't know why you're wasting your time." He smiles at me, and keeps cleaning the lines. I again say to him, "I don't know why you're wasting your time, anything close to those lines, and I'm going to call the ball out." He looks back at me, still smiling. He's thinking that I'm joking, that somehow I'm not telling the truth. But I'm completely honest. I don't know this guy. He doesn't get any favors from me. Anything close to the line is out. A bad call can psychologically devastate a tennis player. It can create a distraction, a mental challenge, a break in concentration. I know that morally, this is reprehensible, but this is also New York City tennis. 

Tennis in the Morning

Last winter, I started playing at this semi-private, tennis club out on Roosevelt Island. They were always trying to get me to join, but I'm just not a member's only, "tennis club" guy. It's just not my style. Besides, indoor tennis only has a place in the winter, if you ask me. So this place is full of cagey, stockbroker types, at least before the market went sour. I found this "Morning Bird Special," two hours for the price of one. Inside during the winter, not bad really. Indoor tennis is just expensive, at least here in New York City. These stockbroker types were fun to play against, not real athletic, but competitive. Most of these guys were a little older, although it's hard to generalize. I made some decent money last winter out on Roosevelt Island. Stockbrokers love to gamble. And the thing is, I happen to be a great early morning player. Things are simpler for me in the morning, which translates well to my tennis game. I don't "think too much," one of the true mental obstacles to overcome. Sometimes, my brain doesn't idle at the slow pace that it should, but usually in the morning I'm okay. Eventually, the weather turned to spring, and I moved outdoors and began playing more regularly in Central Park. 

Pretty Tennis Players Don't Always Win

Many times, on the tennis court, the prettiest player doesn't always win. I mean style counts for something, unless you're losing. On the city courts, there are many ugly players that will beat you into submission. You know, big, meaty, non-athletic men that play like mental pit bull terriers. The city courts have players in tee shirts, with sweat stains, grime, and certainly nothing pretty. Tennis whites need not apply. Country club wannabes, capture your own snob within. No, the city courts are for real tennis players, just a square, a net, a racquet, some balls, and a desire for a match. City court players have hair on their backs and no time for waxing. This is grit and gruff tied into a tennis game, and it's definitely not for everyone. 

Tennis and God

God told me that life plays like tennis. You play the odds, you control yourself, and on your worst days, no matter what you do, you still hit the ball into the net. Some days, that rectangle square, sitting on the other side of the net just needs to be bigger. I set myself up as a player, I prepare. I address the ball and I breath, and I take a big swing and hit the ball. Some days the ball lands in, some days the ball lands out. But I keep swinging, I keep thinking, I keep playing the odds. Some days the ball lands in, and the guy I'm playing against screws me. Always, the game moves forward.

Tennis, Like an Old Girlfriend

I really had not played competitive tennis since high school. Somehow the game just drifted out of my life. Well, that's not exactly true. I really just developed other interests. Until I moved to the New York City last year, I had lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico and Aspen, Colorado for nearly all of my adult life. Skiing and snowboarding and bicycling were the staples of my athletic existence. I had always lived in the mountains. So what did I do upon the culture shock of moving to the city? I went out to eat, of course. Like the video game "Pac Man," I gobbled up just about every kind of food imaginable, munching my way around Manhattan. I ate so much that I began to get fat and unhealthy. I decided that I needed to start something other than eating. Tennis seemed like an old friend who needed to come back into my life. She came back, kind of like an old girlfriend with consistently great chemistry. I dove in with passion, falling in love all over again. And I lost weight, pulled myself back into shape, and realized how much I missed the competition.

Riverside Red Clay

Every once in a while, I play tennis in Riverside Park. These Beautiful courts on the upper west side are the slow red clay, kind of like Roland Garros, in Paris. The tennis ball dies in the thick, red mud. My game falls a notch because I lose some power, but the park and these courts are absolutely beautiful. In the loose dirt, my game develops a slide to the ball, and ultimately patience and balance. It's hard to attack all the time on slow red clay. I have to pick my moments and pounce.

Tennis in the East Village

Sometimes, I find myself playing tennis on the public courts underneath the Williamsburg Bridge. This is the East Village. It's a different game down here. This is gritty tennis, in a tough park. This is tennis with a layer of grime. Sometimes, there's a group of players who come out on Sundays and play "old school tennis," with old wood racquets and long hair and seventies tennis attire. Replicating the golden years of the tennis player, dressing up as Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe, and Vitas Geralaitis, all rock stars of tennis, from a different era. I think it's a group of gay men actually, who usually dress in drag, adding some theatre and drama into playing tennis on a Sunday afternoon. Getting into costume and playing adds a nice slant to the game. Something you will only find underneath the Williamsburg Bridge, playing tennis in the East Village. Surrounded by the smell of traffic and garbage, and just tough, city life. 

Tennis is My Real Passion

I'm a tennis player. I would call this my real passion. And I'm not one of those soft, country club types, either. No way, I play in Central Park on the public courts. A place where you better be tough, and when there's a court open, you better jump, and quick. There's no room for softies and crybabies. It's not exactly a country club setting. This is New York City tennis, tough and gritty, and you better bring your game. Usually, I play with the older guys, a group of retired teachers, living off of their pensions, focusing on their tennis. Not real athletic, but that little yellow ball always comes back. I tend to be fairly athletic without much mental capacity. I often beat the best players, while losing to the worst. But my good days carry me through, and I love to play tennis.