Later today I have a tennis match against a 20-year old woman who plays for her college team on a tennis scholarship. Her mom is the tennis pro at the health club where I play. I am still formulating my strategy for avoiding embarrassment. My current plan is to run head first into the net post when the score reaches 5-0.
My tennis skill is about 4.0. For you non-tennis players, that means I can do most of the things that a professional tennis player can do, but not as well as he would do it. For example, I can hit a blistering forehand with heavy topspin on a full run . . . into the bottom of the net. And I can hit a crisp approach shot and follow it to the net while cutting off the angle before my opponent drives the ball into my solar plexus and I lose consciousness.
My best weapon is my surprising speed. It’s surprising in the sense that evidently I look as if I can’t run more than five yards without collapsing. My opponents always express amazement that I “got to that one.” I think it has something to do with the fact than when I exercise my face looks like I got in a slap fight with Uma Thurman. (She has gigantic hands.)
My other weapon is a little thing I call the mis-hit. The better players never see it coming. My opponent will slam a punishing crosscourt forehand and I’ll use a creative part of my racket – usually the frame or some part of the grip – to produce a ball trajectory that looks like a Kennedy on New Year’s Eve. My opponent thinks I’m just lucky the first five times I do it. After that, I usually get some respect. At least that’s how I interpret the swearing and grimacing.
I will stop here and update you on the match afterwards.
[This next part was written after the match]
The good news is that I hit enough “Kennedys” to actually win. The bad news is that my opponent has renounced tennis and joined the Witness Protection Program so that no one at the club will ask her how the match went.