Tennis Is The Last To Go

I’m not going to lie to you.  Things have not been great this year.  My husband lost his full time job over a year ago and we have been scraping by on project and freelance work ever since.  A lot has changed.

I don’t go to movies or out to dinner, pretty much ever.  The cleaning woman comes half as often as she used to.  No more Poland Spring deliveries.  I just cancelled my YMCA membership. 

We still have an guy come mow the lawn because 1. We don’t have a lawnmower and 2. He is so dang cheap.  If it were left to us, it would never get done.  But I rarely buy clothes.  No pedicures or waxing of any kind.  Haircuts, only when absolutely necessary.

We haven’t replaced the broken vacuum cleaner – using instead the hundred-year-old Electrolux that had been relegated to basement use only.  We’ve left our over-priced accountant, my excellent (but expensive) shrink, and barely go on vacations ever to anywhere.

However, I still play tennis at least twice a week.  Three times on a good week. 

Tennis is my meditation and my salvation.  It is the single thing I look forward to week in and week out.  Indoor court time does not come cheap, but the whole family agrees: Mom needs her tennis.

The Players: Debi The Sub

Debi the Sub and I know each other from my working-in-an-office days.  Back then she was Debi the Freelancer, essentially filling the same role as she does now: stepping in to do a job that no one else is available to do.

Debi the Sub grew up playing tennis but hadn’t picked up a racquet in over twenty years before this summer.  Our tennis together started out rough, with her being so unconditioned that she could barely hit for 20 minutes straight.  But we went out alone once or twice a week for a while and she improved dramatically each time. I guess that’s the difference between learning the game as an uncoordinated, middle-aged wannabe and growing up going to tennis camps. 

At first she would only hit one-on-one with me, but eventually I talked her into playing doubles.  She barely knew the game—growing up playing singles -- but was eager to learn.  She has a great groundstroke and can get almost anything back from the baseline, but she didn’t understand how to play the net, either psychologically or physically.  I shared with her the few things I’d picked up after five years and five hundred thousand dollars of tennis instruction.  She catches on easily so, again, her game changed quickly.

Debi the Sub fits right in to my tennis world in that, like most of the rest of us, she’s a strong woman with a delicate emotional state.  Most of us are like that: we present well in modern society, but our psyches rest tenuously on houses built of cards.  As a group, we embody every imaginable phobia and compulsion known to man.  It’s this shared psychodrama that makes our tennis so lively.

One day, four of us were playing a game and Debi the Sub and I were winning.  This is not a typical state of affairs for us.  We lose most of the matches we play together.  But we were taking point after point and we were both a little giddy as a result.  In between points, she came over to hand me balls and said in a low, excited way, “We’re invincible!”

I was feeling the same way and squealed quietly in agreement.  From that point on, we went down.  Debi the Sub knew as well as I did what had happened.  We got cocky, which always backfires.  We lost point after point, knowing full well that we had set this particular spiral in motion with our arrogant proclamation.  We also knew the only way to set things right was to repent. 

“We suck,” we would say to each other quietly, hoping the Universe would heed our atonement.  Even if we won a point, we would say, “That was good, but we still suck.”

I can’t remember whether we ultimately won or lost that game, but it solidified for me that she was a kindred spirit.  It’s almost impossible to try and vet out viable subs for my groups.  How can you say to someone: you need to be serious, but not too serious?  Fun, but not distractingly silly?  Competitive, but not haughty?  Neurotic, but in the right ways and not to a paralyzing degree? 

That you must completely understand and comply with the laws of Tennis Karma, which are unspoken and changeable, yet fully knowable if you are paying any attention at all.  When you find someone like that, you must make sure that all your players put her on their sub list.  And if she can ace her serve, like Debi the Sub, you must move her right to the top.  

The Long Shot

I had barely started moping about my lack of tennis for Thanksgiving week when I received a sub request in my email.  It was a clinic I’d never played in, run by the head pro at the club.

I’m usually a little anxious on the court with this pro.  He’s seen me play from the moment I first picked up a racquet.  From the time I would perspire most not from running or exertion, but from sheer nerves.  He’s a good instructor, but unlike Laura the Tennis Pro, he’s not an unlimited font of patience.  He’ll do what he can for you, but you don’t get many chances before he writes you off as hopeless. 

He’s written me off as such many, many times.

During this particular clinic, the drills all revolved around hitting overheads, which, he knows, is not my strongest shot.  It’s actually my weakest.  Forget about smashing, I’m just happy to make contact with the strings.  Most often, I’m hitting that shot with my racquet frame.  “You paid for the whole racquet,” he’ll say with uncharacteristic humor, “you might as well use all of it.”

Today, I barely used my frame at all.  I missed a few, but I hit most of them.  Not especially well, but I got my racquet on them.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said to me when I was out of the hot seat.

“It could’ve been much worse,” I agreed.

I took it as a small bonding moment between us.  An unspoken, “Hey-you-don’t-suck-as–much-as-we-both-expected-you-would.”  But it had this really big effect.  Practically all my nervousness evaporated after that exchange.  I started judging myself less harshly and playing more easily.  

Did I end up dazzling him with my athleticism and skill?  Uh…no.  But I got something from that clinic that I’m never able to get with Laura the Tennis Pro – a long-term perspective. 

Being with the same instructor every week, we inch along together making bits of progress here and there.  It’s like watching your kids grow; you don’t really notice the differences day to day.  But being with an instructor only now and again is completely different.  He didn’t exhibit the usual pity or disgust at any of my shots – even the ones I flubbed – and it made me feel like maybe I really have come a long way.  That maybe there is some hope for me after all. 

Wet Cow/Dry Cow

Just before tennis yesterday I decided to play some Grateful Dead to settle my mind. I had gotten myself a little worked up about this game for no good reason at all and I don’t know what it is about that music, but it just calms me right down.

This wasn’t a match – it was just my regular Thursday game – although two people were subbing: Debi the Sub, who is from my old, working-person life and whom I’ve recently brought into my tennis web of madness, and Sloane, who used to be in this Thursday group but ditched us this year for better players.

Sloane can be caustic and Debi the Sub can be sensitive and I wanted everyone to be happy, so I was having some pre-game jitters in that way I do when I feel like I need to take care of everyone’s emotional well being.  Also, I learned on Wednesday that Laura the Tennis Pro had made the baffling decision to travel home for Thanksgiving next Wednesday, and in so doing cancelled our Wednesday Clinic.  So, no clinic next week.  No Thursday game because of pesky Thanksgiving.  No Friday game because all those women want to spend the day with their families.  This was the last time I was going to play for two weeks.  As a result, I wanted to play well and leave the game on a high note. 

I listened to a few songs from Terrapin Station but still showed up a little frazzled, not even taking the time to tie my shoes before I’d gotten in the car.  I laced up, braced up, showed off my new tissues (a gift from Laura the Tennis Pro) which were boldly imprinted – each and every one –with the words You Had Me At Achoo, and stuffed a few tissues into my waistband so when my nose started to run (as it invariably does on Court 5) I would not have to use my shirt sleeve.

I was so pleased with our playing from the very first point.  Debi the Sub and I were partners and I felt like we had a good, simpatico thing going on.  We were up 5-1 and I was just about to vow to listen to the Grateful Dead every single time I came out to play.  But then Sloane and Tracey started getting some games.  Several games.  And before I knew it we were tied 5-5. 

It was warm on Court 5 and we’d already stopped after a few games to take a drink. I would replenish my Achoo tissues.  We’d chat a bit.  I’m not sure what the score was when we went for that final, fateful water break, but it was after we were all tied up.  I had apparently not screwed the top back onto my bottle the time before so when I picked it up the top flew off (which startled me) and I dropped the bottle (which was nearly full) and water (a lot of water) spilled everywhere – all over the little glass table that our waters had been sitting on, all over my warm up shirt and pants that were hanging over the chair back, maybe a bit on my tennis bag, and quite a lot all over the floor.  I didn’t act as quickly as I might have – it was, after all, only water.  If I’d seen the wet handbag right away I wouldn’t have been so cavalier. 

When Tracey reached down to get it, it was the first time I noticed the big water stain on it.  Of course, the bag was leather.  We all started saying, “Oh no!” and I, of course, was mortified.  I think it was Sloane who declared it “ruined,” which was when I chimed in with something completely idiotic.

“It’s going to be okay.  Cows get wet all the time and then they dry.”  (This is actually the mantra I use when I spill something on our leather sofa.)  And it’s true, it does dry.  But our leather sofa has kind of a worn-in, distressed look to it.  It is not the same effect as this buttery soft leather hobo bag. 

Tracey started laughing, but I could tell it was because she really wanted to cry.  “You’re not going to believe this, but I just took this bag out of the box for the first time this morning.  I’ve never even used it before.”

Ok, now I see what’s happened.  It’s not just her handbag I’ve ruined, it’s her brand new handbag.  “I’ll buy you a new one,” I blurted out, because I knew that was the right thing to say.  I quickly started covering the bag with my Achoo tissues, trying to help the drying process along.  Then I got a quick, sick feeling in my gut.  “Wait, you probably got this bag from Nordstrom’s,” I said, “not from Payless.”

Tracey was still laughing about cows, but I could tell she was distressed.  “I ordered it online,” she said.

“Zappos?” I asked.

“Cole Haan,” she said.

I don’t even know how much a Cole Haan bag is, but I’ll tell you this: once someone told me about what another woman paid for a Fendi bag and I was completely dumbstruck.  I don’t even carry a handbag and when I do, it’s from Kohl’s.  That’s not because I’m cheap (although I am), it’s because I know that whatever bag I buy is going to fall short in some way.  It will be too heavy, or tip over awkwardly in the car.  The strap will slide off the shoulder of my favorite coat, or it will be just a little too small to carry a book in.  Rather than spend time bemoaning the money I’ve spent on what I thought would be the “perfect” handbag, I get inexpensive bags that I use for special occasions, and the rest of the time I just carry my wallet in my pocket.  Before my Fendi education, I thought $200 was a lot for a bag.

Later I found out that Tracey has had the same quest: the hunt for the perfect bag.  Although, unlike me, she hadn’t given up.  This Cole Haan bag was potentially it.  She’d splurged.  This was the bag that was going to change her life (as handbags are wont to do). 

I spent the day cursing my clumsiness.  My forgetfulness around recapping my water.  My stupidity around talking about wet cows in the face of tragedy.  My ability to wreck damage and destruction every time I leave the house.  I cursed the fact that Debi the Sub and I ended up losing 6-8 a set in which we had an early 5-1 lead.  And also I cursed the Grateful Dead, who were supposed to bring me good fortune that day, not bad.

In between all that, I went on the Cole Haan website and found the bag (on sale…whew!).  I called their customer service department and asked how to antidote a big water mark.  The gentleman I spoke to couldn’t have been lovelier, but it was quickly apparent that Cole Haan customers are not typically klutzy, because he had absolutely no experience in dealing with anything like this. 

I did a web search, not on Wet Cows/Dry Cows, but on Removing Water Stains From Leather.  Fifteen articles came up with the exact same advice (which was, interestingly, sort of based on my “cows dry” theory) and I emailed them all to Tracey. 

She wrote me back a note that obviously took her an hour to compose.  It was a long, amazing reminiscence of how she had gotten to this bag – the years it had taken her to stop buying cheap bags from which she wasn’t even able to access her ringing cell phone and finally spend some real money on something that would truly make her happy.  As I read it, I just felt worse and worse.  I knew I was going to be out a couple hundred on the bag – and that it was the right thing to do – but I couldn’t help thinking: Cows Dry.  

She ended her note by saying that her family can barely notice the water mark and that if she herself does notice it, it will remind her of how much fun she has playing tennis with me.  I don’t even know how someone can get there from where she was.  How to go, not from Wet Cow to Dry Cow, but from Wet Cow to I’m Happy To Have The Cow Wet, which is not only the essence of grace, but is surely a Google search that could benefit me a hundred times more than getting in a couple extra games of tennis.

I'm Off Today

I play tennis most Fridays.  But not today.  I'm off the schedule today and already I can feel the crankiness setting in.

I jumped out of bed early hoping to find a message in my inbox that someone is looking for a sub.

I've been known to take a more active role.  I've been known to send out an email to every tennis friend I have, telling them which days I'm free to sub that week in case anyone can't make their game.  This technique has paid off well.  Women will take me up on my offer for (what I consider) outlandish alternatives.  They'll skip tennis for a doctor's appointment, or a hair appointment, or for (heaven forbid) work.  I almost understand skipping tennis to tend to a sick child, although there are tables and chairs in the lounge...a television...a snack machine...a bathroom.  Really, what more are they going to get at home?

This week I didn't send out an availability email.  I decided to just let fate take it's course.  And I don't mind telling you I don't like where it's gotten me.

There's a certain amount of shame attached to being a tennis wench.  And I feel it now, sitting in the middle of my throat.  Like a tennis ball.