Not that it matters, but I totally swear that I don’t only get tennis fever every September, when the U.S. Open zips into Gotham and effectively glues every Rafa- and Roger-addict’s a– to the couch for two solid weeks. I’ve been playing, badly but happily, for a few years now, ever since we moved to condo and apartment complexes that have courts oh-so-conveniently on premises.
In our last digs, Hubby and I both took tons of lessons. Not together, mind you, because he’s like a way better player than I am, which so doesn’t surprise me in the least, because he’s super-smart and really good at pretty much everything he tries, which I kinda hate him for. Kidding; I love him for that, but I turn as green as the balls in this pic with envy when I see how easily he masters new stuff he decides to try.
Anyhoo, in our pre-move condo sitch, booking court time to play together was A) expensive and B) a pain in the pleated-tennis-skirt fanny. Hence all the group lessons, which were organized and easy, and less costly, and probably better for our marriage because our skill levels dictated that he was with the cool kids and I was with the losers.
Is it okay if I say that I was super-psyched every week to be the least loser-y of all the losers in my tennis group? Actually, I know it isn’t okay to say it. It probably isn’t okay to even think it. But in this dog-eat-dog world of ours, a time and place in which everything – EVERY.THING. – is a competition, one must take psychological and emotional comfort wherever one finds it…
Faithful readers know we recently moved just a hop, skip and jump up the street in what I call “fake Newport,” and one of the chief reasons we picked this place is because of the tennis facilities. And the pool, and the crazy-good gym, replete with racquet and basketball courts, should you be so inclined.
And the wall-to-wall carpeting, which I intend to address in an upcoming post….
But the tennis courts, which our particular pad looks out on, tug on my brain in a really good way. They’re super-easy to book and free. Free is good when you play as badly as I do. Free is crucial.
Although it took a month, post-move, to get our tennis groove on, Hubby and I have been playing lately. Together. Bravely.
When your skill levels are unmatched, as ours are, and you completely and utterly don’t want to cause irreparable damage to your marital union, you both have to adjust. The lesser player (moi) needs to step it up, and work. The greater player (Hubby, grrr times a trillion), needs to step it down, and lighten TFU.
Probably because he loves me, Hubby has been indulging me in leisurely two-bounce tennis. Two-bounce tennis rules, at least until you improve enough to move up to the real McCoy one-bounce stuff. And I do think it’s important to always try to get better, if only because you’re playing with your hubby, and he’s better than you are, and you want your marriage to be absolutely, without-question groovy. Thwack.
NOTE TO FELLOW TENNIS FIENDS: If you’ve never read Andre Agassi’s memoir, I urge you to drop that racquet and git yer mitts on a copy. OMG, it is soooo good.