Love all

The Background
You've gotta love a game that starts off each time with 'love all'. Peace. Add to this the genesis of the Scandinavian middle name of yours truly and one has a clear winner. Incontrovertible.

The Event
The workplace as is its wont every 365 days declared the occurrence of its annual tennis extravaganza (too much drama?). With trembling hands, the clod (a.k.a. this here writer) signed up. After all, they gave everyone a t-shirt and the clod will do anything for a t-shirt. Anything.

The Equipmentizing
After a cursory process of needs assessment/formative research, my next step consisted of peregrinating my least favorite store on God's green (debatable) earth (Clue: least favorite store's name starts with 'W' and ends with 'T' and rhymes with Kenyon Martin's nickname) seeking tools I would require on this dangerous journey. While there I picked up a piece and very quickly christened it 'The Roger' and proceeded to hold it aloft my head with both hands to indulge myself in a 'He-Man and the Masters of the Universe' moment. While basking in my fantasy glory or fantaglory (portmanteau,baby)I was quite rudely interrupted by an adolescent. I patiently descended from my pedestal and imagined this to be my first autograph-signing when I was requested by aforementioned adolescent to remove myself from the aisle since I was hindering his progress. Pesky kid. I got over this rapid fall from grace and continued my purchases adding a hat and a grip for 'The Roger'.

The Pre
There we were. Cutting work for a whole afternoon. I made it a point to tell everyone and their mothers (some people did actually bring their mothers) very loudly and incessantly that I had not picked up a racquet in decades. Rustiness was a certainty, I made it known. And, then the big kahuna said those two magic words. Round. Robin. Woot! No early elimination here. A first round exit was precluded merely by format. God bless you, kahunaperson.

The Warmup
It was more like baseball. I kept swinging and missing. The chances of me connecting were about 1.267% (p<0.0005) and each time I did, the ball flew out of the park er tennis court. Home run. Grand slam.

The Moment
We were to play eight rounds of doubles (again a convenient arrangement in terms of blame-placing) and change partners for each round. While the author did not thoroughly distinguish himself in the proceedings, he was assured by others that he did not completely embarrass himself either. 'The Boris' (you gotta name your serve otherwise bad luck will attach itself to your serve like a double fault) was in fine form, the groundstrokes and volleys were er not. Let's just say that my chances of making it to Sportscenter that night were slim (optimistically speaking). In the last round, it happened. The type of story that the grandoffspring will hear about a million times. Minimum. My partner, a Californian hit the ball straight at me standing at the net. Now, I am very skilled at dodging. Responsibility, for example. I moved the belly out of the way not-so-deftly and my lower limbs intertwined and down I went. Like a sack of them Idaho potatoes. I did not have enough time though to look at the brilliant blue sky and mull life over because the point was still alive. I scrambled back up (the last time I showed this kind of enthusiasm to scrambling-back-up related actions was when my neighbor told me that Malaika Arora was visiting our building. Circa 1997) and watched as the ball came flying back over the net. A little nudge to my reflexes and I stuck 'The Roger' out to make the volley and the winner. Thunderous applause followed as the dozens and dozens of tired people waiting to go home acknowledged my monumental feat. Sure, it hit the frame. Sure, I might never make that volley again. Pure fluke, I know. BUT. That memory is a keeper. It goes right into my very minute cerebral vault.

The Closure a.k.a. the Sore Back
Back home. The back was sore. The cold beverage was in hand. The tube showed Roger (the human version) take apart Rafa. The heart was happy. Closure.

Tweet