10 S N E 1?

Driving to the tennis courts in Delaware Park last Saturday to play for the first time in about five years, I was whisked back some thirty years and a couple thousand miles.

My parents, who were the same age I am now, received matching tennis rackets at Christmas 1974. They were wooden and top-of-the-line, but they sat untouched in their vinyl covers with a couple of other assorted rackets and things like the slide projector and wrapping paper and ribbons in a back closet until one dinnertime the following June. As we were finishing dinner, Mom announced that she felt like playing a little tennis. We all gaped. Mom? Tennis? No way! We left the dishes as they were; my dad and my brothers and I grabbed the rackets and the few cans of balls. Where the balls came from, I have no idea, and at least one of the rackets still had its old-fashioned wooden press.
We drove to the local high school, and once we got a free court, took turns rallying in mixed-doubles. We kids got a particular kick out of Mom, doing something we never imagined her doing—being athletic. I wasn’t known as an athlete either, but enjoyed banging the ball furiously against the backboard.

I never saw my mother play tennis again, but I discovered that an old childhood friend played, and for the rest of that and several summers running, tennis became my game. It was the period when wooden racquets were rapidly giving way to metal ones. The Wilson T2000 that Jimmy Connors used had a crazy wire wrapping. Head came out with its composite racket with the elongated oval face. I envied the new equipment in the hands of other players, but did my best to keep up until my parents gave me a metal racket for my 15th birthday.

I started following tennis on television. Borg was my favorite player, and not just because of his long blond hair and blue eyes. I liked his cool. His Nordic cool. It’s what I admired about Edberg and Sampras, and what I like about Federer. I couldn’t stand the theatrics of a Jimmy Connors or a John McEnroe. I’ve come to respect the games of players whose playing style I don’t necessarily like, just as I came to like baseball even when the Yankees aren’t involved. I’ve been to the U.S. Open several times, but I hadn’t played here in Buffalo until last week.

It was wonderful to be out there on the court at seven-thirty in the evening with the sun still up and out. The heat and dryness of the air, the smell of the grass, the shouts of the kids on the soccer field behind the courts. When I was a teenager, the courts at the local high school didn’t have lights for nighttime play, but that wouldn’t stop us, especially if the score was close. Penn, Dunlop, and Wilson all manufactured balls that were Day-Glo Orange, and even made some balls that were half-yellow, half-orange. I was happy to see that my backhand remained as strong as ever, but my forehand always needs work. But mostly what needs some work is me. I winded quickly, and couldn’t last more than an hour. And I kept trying to move my feet, but they refused to move quickly, as if protesting, “Take it easy! We can’t throw all that weight around as easily as we could when you were thirty years younger and half the size.” I’m going try to do what I can to relieve them of some of their burden.