I Am An Old Man

Once upon a time, I really enjoyed the game of tennis. Right around 7th Grade, it became kind of cool to spend summer evenings playing under the lights at the local municipal courts. Cool kids got there via moped. I rode my bike. I read Tennis magazine and attended the US Open every September, but mostly I just liked hitting the ball around. There was something strangely satisfying about hitting a perfect shot, or chasing down a lob, or tending the net. And I always felt kind of cool being the only kid to play left-handed, as if this slight (and probably mostly psychological) advantage made up for what was, at the end of the day, a totally average set of skills. Also, since most lefties seem to be at least a little ambidextrous, I felt extra cool running down particularly tough shots to my right side, switching hands, and returning them right-handed. I doubt anyone even noticed, but to me this was the absolute height of 7th Grade
Tennis Cool.

At some point during high school, I realized that my playground game wasn't going to cut it if I actually wanted to play in any official capacity. So I started taking lessons once a week, and progressed to the point where I was able to break into the Varsity squad my senior year. Our school had a good team by south Jersey standards (meaning we won our division, but got slaughtered at county or state tournaments or any occasion which pitted us against opponents from the more populous northern portions of the state), and while the rest of the team was pretty polished (though still quirky), my doubles partner Jon and I probably clashed a bit with the others, at least in terms of playing ability. We were Second Doubles, the lowest members of the Varsity team, and were periodically challenged by JV players, who could have taken our spots by beating us at practice (they didn't). Point being: the rest of the team didn't have to deal with this crap, since they were actually good at tennis. We were only marginally good. But that's what was fun about it. While Brian, at First Singles (the best player), had to pretty much play like a machine to compete against each school's best player (even schools w/ incredibly shitty teams had one good guy Brian had to face), Jon and I were free to be our scrappy, marginally good selves. I could hit forehands from both sides, throw my racket after bad shots, and dive around the court like an idiot. Jon, even worse, would smoke in between games, eat McDonalds cheeseburgers during court changes, and once climbed up the high chain link fence surrounding the court and started screaming for someone to let him out of his cage. I think we were losing at the time. On more than one occasion, we were reprimanded by the other team's coach, which really takes some doing. But man, this was fun!

[Jon later got arrested for grand larceny and extradited to West Virginia. True story.]

[Totally Skippable Tennis Note, for anyone interested: the way a team tennis match works is this: there are 7 Varsity Players. The top 3 play singles, the next 4 doubles. So, each match is actually comprised of 5 matches (3 singles, 2 doubles). Whichever team wins the best of 5, wins the match. So screwups like me and Jon actually figure in evenly with the real players.)

ANYWAY, then I got to college and sports weren't cool anymore. What was cool? Let's see: hair dye, nose rings, apathy, flannel, thrift shops, Seattle, coffee, and etc. I put down my racket and didn't play tennis again for another 16 years. Which brings us to this past Monday.

Holy unbelievable crap, I am an old, slow, and easily-winded semblance of my former self. I am an embarresment to terrestrial creatures of all shapes and sizes. I am a lumbering oaf with the soft touch of a rhino. I am a sack of bones and soft shapes where once were muscles. I am very, very bad at tennis. When I say I was sore after playing a single set, what I mean is that two days later I was begging my girlfriend to please rub my right buttock, which throbbed with an intensity of pain normally associated with makeshift Civil War field hospitals (like any right-minded person, by the way, she demurred). Four days of absolute misery. Here's what I couldn't do without yelping in pain after playing one set of tennis: put my pants on, brush my teeth, walk down a flight of stairs, drive, tie my shoes. I mean, this was a serious wakeup call. I am no longer young.

But damn, I don't wanna go out like this. I played again on Friday, and this time was able to last a set and a half. I was sore all weekend, but nothing like the first time (now my soreness was of a more reasonable variety: feet, ankles, that sort of thing). Thing is, while plodding around the court the second time, I was struck over the head by the knowledge of what getting old, and I mean really old, will feel like. As I shuffled about, hitting balls into the net, way past the baseline, or not at all, I experienced a dramatic disconnect between brain and body. In my head, I was still the same me as ever. My "I" — whatever it is that makes me feel like me — hadn't changed at all. The brain was still in perfect shape. I knew exactly what shots I wanted to hit, where I wanted to place them, what spin I wanted to put on them. The whole game came flooding back to me almost immediately, as if my last match were 16 hours ago, not 16 years. But actually doing it? Totally different story. I just can't. It just doesn't happen. My body knows the truth, whether or not my brain can relate. I think this is what getting old must feel like, a series of surprises, the gradual incremental knowledge that, in fact, you aren't really you anymore, regardless of what you think.