Tennis

 When my mother was 17 years old she met my father on a tennis court in New York City.  After the game, my father invited her to have a soda with him.  She declined, saying her mother didn’t allow her to go out with strangers.  Does that have something to do with my lifelong love of tennis?

I remember playing tennis with my young cousin, John at Gypsy Trail Camp somewhere in New York state.  Our mothers brought us there for a week’s vacation.  I was 16, John 11.  In the photo I am smiling happily.  I won! (photo)

I played once or twice with my friend, Laura in Mt. Lebanon, a suburb of Pittsburgh PA, and at The University of Michigan.  I only got seriously committed many decades later when I was 53 years old, married to my second husband and the mother of 2.  I took lessons from Doug Atkinson, who was at that time a tall, blond, slim, handsome young man employed by the City of Davis.  I remember saying to him, “Don’t expect too much of me.  I’m 53!”  I took those lessons with our son, Jan who was then in junior high.  He soon outdistanced me and preferred to play with his friends.  I continued to take lessons with Doug for 40 years, moving from club to club, as he moved.

Doug was an ideal teacher, as well as a devoted friend.  He was always encouraging me.  He was always proudly telling his friends that I had been his student for many years.  I always left the court feeling good.

Those Wednesdays at The Broadstone Racquet Club in Folsom, CA were always a special treat.  It was a 40-minute drive each way but it was worth it.  After my  lesson I always had a delightful jacuzzi.  I enjoyed it most when I was the only one in the little pool.  I enjoyed slowly immersing myself in the hot water, then enjoying the view of tall, slender palm trees, bright yellow umbrellas and in the summer, hordes of young children taking swimming lessons.  I could hear tennis balls bouncing on nearby courts, and the shouts and laughter of nearby tennis players.

After the jacuzzi, I always had a shower, changed my clothes and had lunch in the small lunchroom.  I had a special friend there, whose name I have forgotten.  (She originally came from Jordan.)  She knew exactly what I would order since it was always the same thing.  A small bottle of cold chocolate milk, and my half-sandwich which consisted of avocado, cucumber, cream cheese and lots of other things.  A “combo” on toasted whole wheat bread.  Another special friend, an immigrant from Romania used to insist upon treating me to lunch whenever she saw me.  That was because I once gave her one of my small paintings. After my  lesson, jacuzzi and lunch I always left the club in high spirits. 

I always said goodbye to another special friend, Gina at the front desk.  She reminded me of the heroine in Turgenev’s Spring Torments, with her dark hair piled up on top of her head.  She was young and pretty and always had a cheerful word when I departed.

In the ‘80s I organized a Thursday morning tennis group which lasted for many decades.  When people dropped out or moved away, I replaced them.  We would probably have been classified as “C” players, but we always had lots of fun.  We even played in a high wind.  I always said, “Let’s give it a try.”  We were mostly older women, though not as old as me, with a few men.  One of the men, Ben Levy had formerly been a paratrooper in the Israeli Army, during the 6 Day War.  (That impressed me.)  Another one who was in his seventies rushed around the court like a young man and kept us laughing even though he had a mentally disabled daughter living in a special school.  He eventually moved to Mexico to be with his wife, who had been deported by the Trump Administration.  

Why did I love tennis so much?  It is a fast game.  Very exciting!  I liked the camaraderie between partners and the competitiveness.  I used to say,  “I am not competitive, I just love to play tennis.”  But I found out that, like my mother I was competitive and cared very much about winning.  

For my birthday they used to arrange a little party on the court.  Or else I invited them to lunch at a local restaurant.  

I gave up tennis last year, at the age of 95.  My legs were stiff, my eyes half-blind, my serves were too weak to go over the net.  My body was telling me, “It’s time to quit,” even though my partners urged me to continue playing.  The pandemic has closed the courts, so I stay at home trying to “cultivate contentment.”  I remember with nostalgia what my friend John Jungerman once said to me, “Nancy, you’re a tiger at the net!”