Each morning at 8am I play pickle-ball. Across the road from the pickle ball courts are several tennis courts. At 830 tennis players congregate there.
I used to be a decent singles tennis player. In 2000 I was the number one ranked 3.5 tennis player in New England. This included players from Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and parts of Connecticut. The designation sounds more grand than it actually was. It is based on how a player competes in tournaments. Most of the tournaments are in the Boston area, so great players from other states might not want to travel hours to compete-especially since in 60 minutes they might get eliminated and have to drive back. Still, I won five or six tournaments consecutively, and while I am not certain as of this writing, I believe 8 or 9 tournaments during the season. I also had not been defeated in 3.5 league competition for two years running. Three fives, are not as good as Fours, or Four Fives, but the competition particularly in the leagues was serious.
Okay, so I was better than the average bear. Then sometime in 2013 I ran into a serious of ailments which required surgeries. A few years back I picked up pickle ball and now can hold my own on those courts. Not a champion, but I am decent.
Today, I decided it was too long since I had played tennis. After my pickle ball 8 am, I intended to go across the street and play tennis. How long would it take me to get back to form? There were some good players across the street, but nobody looked as good as I was when I played seriously.
After pickle ball, I get on the tennis courts and in the next ten minutes I had a moment.
During the warmups I could not get the hang of the bouncing ball. Used to the whiffle ball of pickle ball, the tennis ball kept comically hopping over my racket. I must have looked like one prize goof jumping up and trying to hit it. Fine, i would get used to it. It was doubles not singles and this wasn't the US OPEN. I started serving. They played "first ball in" which means that the first ball that goes in starts play. I hit a serve that could not be returned. It was lucky just well placed. "So" I thought "this is going to come back easily."
Then I double faulted three straight times. Six times in a row I could not get the ball over the net. The others were kind, but this was the sort of thing that drove me bats when I played. Some person saying he could play, but could not put the ball in play. Our team was down, 15-40 when I finally served the ball over the net. The opponent returned it. I chased after it. Then I did an imitation of the flying Wallendas, missing the shot, and falling ass over tea kettle, losing my tennis racket, and stopping play on both courts. Seven others came over to ask me how I was.
My pride was hurt more than anything else, though I would have preferred not to land smack on one of my artificial hips. I had two cuts that looked worse than they were. One of the players was a nurse and he came over with assorted stuff to clean my cuts. I felt like a fool with a capital f.
The players, all ten years younger than me, were being so kind and while I was grateful for their assistance, it has made me stop and wonder if I have lost it. Now, I know I should not have expected to play effortlessly, but gee I could not time the ball at all, or serve, or run down the ball. Good lord.
One of the players said he was feeling good at 66. I feel great at nearly 74, but there was a moment which reminded me that our heads and our bodies are not necessarily on the same page. For someone who self identifies as an athlete and proud of it, it was humbling to truly (and I am not sugarcoating it) look like a circus clown without the red nose as I chased down the only ball that was returned.
There's a ball machine so maybe I will go out and practice and see if I can try to redeem myself, but there was a moment there, and is a moment now, which makes me reassess where I am.
