Recently in Tennis Category

I think I've mentioned once or twice on these pages how I used to play basketball back in the day with a bunch of guys who were within shouting distance of my age. We got together one night a week at a local school gym (and, in the summer, at a local playground). We'd run up and down the court for a couple of hours, talk some trash, occasionally twist an ankle or dislocate a finger, and then go have a couple beers. I did this from 1985 until after my 50^th birthday in 2001. I recall attempting a poorly calculated comeback a year or two after that, but I've basically been out of the game for the better part of a decade.

 

So, I was a little taken aback recently when my tennis buddy, M.E., told me that the old gang was reconstituting the weekly game and was extending an invitation to him and me to return to the court. I was flattered, of course, but circumspect. I mean, on the one hand, I really don't think I can recapture whatever skills I once owned. And the chance of injury is pretty good. On the other hand, these guys haven't exactly grown younger in the past decade; I suspect the game would be played more or less in slow motion.

 

There was some fine print to be considered in this deal, as well: It wouldn't just be old guys on the court, actually. Apparently, there was a gaggle of twentysomethings that kind of filled out the roster, M.E. noted. Could we convince them to let us old guys slog along on our own while they pranced, gazelle-like, on a neighboring court?

 

Part of me -- the testosterone-fuelled idiot part -- loves the idea of playing against guys young enough to be my sons. It would be a great challenge. It would push my limits. Clear out the cobwebs in my fitness routine.

 

I was kind of in that zone Wednesday night, when M.E. and I arrived at the LTF Crosstown club for a 9 pm tennis match. We had about a half-hour to kill, so we tossed our tennis gear into a corner the gym, grabbed a basketball and started reliving our former glory on the hardwood. I was surprised to see that, after a few bricks clanked off the rim, I began draining 18-footers like the old days (which is to say, intermittently). Meanwhile, M.E. was starting to feel pretty good about himself, which meant he needed a little one-on-one.

 

That was OK. He's not as tenacious as he was in his 40s. And nobody was going to be driving the baseline for reverse lay-ups. Just a couple of middle-aged guys reliving the good old days. But, here's the pathetic part: We went at each other for maybe 10 minutes, neither of us presenting much in the way of defense, and the ball never actually managed to travel through the hoop.

 

Hmmm.

 

We grabbed our stuff and silently shuffled off to the tennis courts, where we battled through an exhilarating 14-game set before I prevailed 8-6. It was the best tennis we'd played all season: long rallies, great shot-making, much scampering from baseline to net. We worked up quite a lather.

 

And on the way home, I don't recall any talk about basketball.

For months now, I've been struggling to find ways to "mix up" my workout routine. Loyal readers may recall my foray onto the basketball court awhile back or my occasional yoga adventures. Well, now that I'm everyone's favorite tennis opponent, the problem isn't so much finding a way out of my tried-and-true EDM/lifting/sometimes-stretching rut; it's all about getting back into the gym!

 

Since my Belgian Waffle revelation a week ago, I've not had a chance to visit the gym (or to eat any waffles, for that matter). I was consumed by various tasks at home over the Labor Day weekend, I played tennis on Tuesday night, had a meeting after work on Wednesday, and last night played tennis again. Not against my regular tennis buddy, M.E., but instead I squared off against an old magazine colleague of mine, J.W., who apparently reads these pages from time to time and, noticing my current obsession, challenged me to a match.

 

J.W. is a kind-hearted soul who, I figured, would show some mercy on an elderly player who also has fed her a good deal of freelance work over the years (I'm just sayin' . . .), so I accepted her challenge and we met at the lovely Nokomis tennis courts after work last night. I also figured I needed some more practice before my scheduled match with the ultra-competitive M.E. on Sunday; he's been playing several sets of doubles each week and on Tuesday it showed -- his serve is getting faster and more accurate, and even though I played pretty well, he still beat me 6-3. (His Achilles has healed also, I should point out. . . and he's seven years younger than me.)

 

Anyway, it turned out that J.W. and I were pretty well matched. Neither of us has a big serve, relying instead on solid ground strokes, so we had some great baseline-to-baseline rallies, and we each hit our share of winners. In fact, J.W. is kind of a machine on the baseline -- she doesn't make a lot of unforced errors. Which is great fun, if you can keep up, which I mostly did through the 11 games we played. She went up 2-0, I rallied to win the next two, she went up 4-3, at which time I noted with some false bravado that I'd have to win the next three games to take a 6-4 set.

 

It nearly proved prescient, as I proceeded to take the next two games, losing only a single point. But, at 5-4, my game suddenly deserted me and I put up only weak resistance as J.W. surged to a 6-5 lead. We didn't play the tie-breaker, as it was getting dark and J.W. was nursing a bit of a strained hamstring, but I was confident that, had we continued, my superior conditioning would prove pivotal to the outcome (ha ha).

 

And, speaking of superior conditioning, I'll be heading cheerfully back to the gym tonight for a little cardio and some stretching. I might even venture down into The Pit to do some squats and deadlifts. I gotta get ready for my next match.

True to my word (see previous post), I actually did pedal over to the local yoga studio with My Lovely Wife yesterday for a noon beginner's class. And it went fine -- except for the Eagle Pose, which probably takes a little more practice.

But I can't blame 45 minutes of yoga bending for my overall soreness this morning. It must've been the tennis.

A couple of days ago, my good friend M.E. e-mailed with the cryptic subject line "Tennis?" and asked, simply, "Do you play?" I replied that I was third singles on my Edgewood Junior High School team back in ninth grade (when the rackets were still made of wood and you needed that rectangular screw-down thingy to keep them from warping). I also played a bit in the mid-'80s and hit it around with my son, Martin, a few years ago when he was briefly interested in the game. I had never known M.E. to be a tennis buff; we played basketball together every week for many years, and he once won 30-odd consecutive games of driveway one-on-one against me and driveway owner S.C. -- a feat he's not shy about recalling more than occasionally. He did not share his own tennis resume; he simply was pretty anxious to get across the net from me.

When he picked me up last night, he had already stopped at a nearby big-box retailer to buy a new racket and two cans of balls -- a move that immediately raised some suspicions. "What's up with this tennis thing," I inquired as we headed toward some unpopulated courts near Lake Hiawatha.

It turns out that his pre-teen daughter is taking lessons and some friends had dragged him out on the court over the weekend. Plus, he divulged that he actually played quite a lot of tennis back in high school (a decade later than me, BTW), and that he wasn't half bad.

I should note here that M.E. is kind of a competitive guy. No, that's not really accurate: He's a very competitive guy. It's not that he's a sore loser, or anything. He just really, really, really likes to win. Back in our hoop days, he was the guy when the team was getting creamed who would yell, "Don't give up!!!"

So, I'm thinking maybe we'll just whack the ball back and forth for awhile, but he's thinking: Game. Set. Match.

Anyway, we get going a bit and it becomes clear pretty early on that he's an OK player and that we're pretty evenly matched. Neither of us are smashing aces or whacking winners down the line, though he does have a nice little drop shot and a backhand with some spin. And I'm pretty much content to try to keep the ball in play. (Actually, I'm kind of surprised that I could still hit it OK; it's been awhile.)

But this is M.E., so we have to keep score. He wins the first four games, then we split the next two before my return catches the net at 15-40 in game eight. M.E. raises his arms in victory, I pretend to assume we were playing the best two out of three, he pretends to agree, and we gather up our stuff and head back to my place for a cold one.

M.E.'s already talking about recruiting S.C. and my son for some regular doubles play. That sounds fine to me. Tennis is a great whole-body workout (or so my body's telling me today). But part of me is recalling those one-on-one games in the driveway and I can't help but wonder whether we're about to become part of another record winning streak.