Groundstroke

Do you play tennis? I do. Or at least, I did. In my youth I was club champion in my age group. My height and reach gave me an advantage. I wore a white Lacoste polo shirt, white shorts, and white tennis shoes. During the winter season I played under heated tents. In my mid-teens however I switched to squash, which, as you know, is an entirely different game. More on squash later.

In recent years in Southern California I have again taken up tennis. It is a sociable sport conducive to professional networking. Unlike golf, which in my opinion is for dead men walking, tennis actually demands a measure of physical fitness and mental alertness. Neglected middle-aged women desiring romance, I find, are particuarly drawn to tennis.

During a recent match I sustained a knee injury and damaged eye. I was sent to the doctor. In the course of the examination they measured my blood pressure. Not good. The doctor came in to see me.

"I don't want to scare you," he began--which had the immediate effect of scaring me--"but you have extremely elevated blood pressure. In fact you're in the top 5%."

Holy shit, I thought. "What does that mean?"

"It means you could drop dead at any minute, from a stroke," he explained.

That was all I needed to hear. Time to regroup. Drastic action is required. Long luncheons and cocktail hours, I am afraid to report, shall have to be curtailed. And alcohol and tobacco are to be rationed under emergency wartime conditions. I will continue going to the gym and participating in various games and physical activities, including tennis.

If I should collapse on the court, do make sure I expire in the arms of a beautiful woman.