Loveless in Tennis Heaven

Some baby boomers are never stuck for something to do … even if they do it wrong. That’s how things have turned out for Laurey and Bill Boyd, who have made for themselves a “loveless” marriage … loveless, in tennis heaven.

My husband and I have rediscovered an old high school sweetheart: tennis. With our soon-to-be empty nest, we are now unencumbered enough to play. Also, we need it. Let’s just say that more than our horizons have broadened. Our kids gave their Dad two rackets and some balls for Father’s Day. Hint, hint. We took the bait and have played practically every night since.

We drive a short distance to the court at a nearby lake park. Living in central Texas where football is a tradition but not tennis, there is seldom any competition for the space other than the occasional basketball players there to use the combined court. The view of the lake, the grass, the other people recreating all make me feel a little more alive just being there.

We started out rather proper with scoring, rules, and advice that I had read on the internet. It was fun enough at first. But after a period of beginner’s adjustment and enthusiasm, my husband’s innate frustration with his inability to master the serve started bogging us down. Yes, I had the pleasure of being the “wiener” most of the time, but this was not what we signed on for.

Recently as we drove into the parking lot in front of the court, we were surprised to see another couple playing there. They were so vigorous, they appeared to be twenty-something: a sort of hippie-looking guy (it’s Austin) and a rather beefy freckled girl. They were all over the place. WHAM WHAM WHAM, UGH UGH UGH They went for every shot no matter what. They were in constant motion. None of this “time out to gather balls and stroll to the service line.” This was guerrilla tennis.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that I knew the woman. She was playing with her husband and they are both about our age. I asked how long they had been playing. She said as long as they’d lived across the street from the court. I’d guess about ten years. Hmmmm.

I decided then and there that these people were on to something. Not only aerobics, but endorphins and, just as important, fun. All that score keeping and serving had become a drag. We even lost count half the time trying to remember where we were scorewise before someone had had to go retrieve balls. I am competitive but all I really wanted to do now was hit the crap out of the ball and keep moving. So what if it lands in the doubles space or even outside the court line?! So what if it’s already bounced twice! Just pounce on it and hit it with everything you’ve got. That’s my new philosophy.

We’ve started playing this new reformed version with no scoring and little emphasis on serving. Balls fly constantly. Also, when I miss a shot I think I should have made, some old high school language flies that I thought I’d heard the last of. That’s okay. I can work on it. Bill seems reinvigorated as well. We are now more suitably matched, so to speak. I had suspected I would need medieval weaponry one day to return his shots once he really let loose. I can see that day coming and not so distantly. But now I welcome it. I don’t want to play like a girl, unless it’s like the woman I saw that night giving it back as good as she got. I want a mad racketball-like scramble with lots of running, jumping, grunting, and gasping. A visceral siege with the satisfaction of knowing we’ve mustered all our forces and given it our best.

We play at night in near triple digit temperatures. Bill suffers from severe sleep apnea and gets up at 4:40 to commute to town at 6:00. I’ve had back spasms so bad they required three Percosets to assuage the pain. Still, we play on for simple love of the game even if these days there technically is no real “game.” To paraphrase Cool Hand Luke, in a game where “love” means “nothing,” sometimes nothing can be a pretty cool hand.