Mixed Doubles

Note the exquisite tennis blazer

Games

I suppose it is a measure of my acute estrangement from pop-society that I had no idea an important American football game took place yesterday.

No wonder the gym was practically empty!

I already must have been asked half-a-dozen times today by complete strangers what I thought about the result, the performance of the quarter-backs, the defence, etc. WTF?! I've no idea what these proles are talking about. Nothing.

Now don't get me wrong. As you know, I'm into fitness, weight-lifting, and competition, and becoming more so. And I've been known to watch the occasional rugby match or tennis tournament. My background in rugby, squash, and rowing at prep school and university levels is documented.

But, as always, I would rather do than watch.

Professional sports are to fitness as porn is to sex.

The English Gentleman: Golf and Tennis

Games like golf and tennis are not taken seriously by gentlemen although they sometimes play them for the sake of the exercise. They do not have the same approach to these games as lesser mortals. In the case of golf, for instance, a gentleman is never seen with one of those vast leather bags filled with gleaming clubs, some of which are adorned with little wooly hats. Instead he has a thin canvas bag with half a dozen assorted clubs, some of which have wooden shafts which he calls his 'knockers.' With these he hits the ball great distances and has the knack of hacking the ball out of the most appalling rough onto the green. He is altogether a maddening person to play against.

The same applies to tennis, for which he dresses in long once-white trousers, now yellowed with age. In mixed foursomes he plays with great courtesy, serving underhand to the lady even if she is a Wimbledon player. Most of his best shots are played off the wood, which has a demoralising effect against even the most expert opponents. When he wins he is so sporting about it and goes on so about the luck of the game that most people feel like wringing his neck.

Douglas Sutherland, The English Gentleman (1978)

Palm Springs Tennis Club

© Slim Aarons ca. 1970



Vintage Racquets

Tennis and Racquet

Tennis International

It should be obvious to you by now that our days here are a sequence of debits and credits. Or to put it another way, God gives and He takes away. There is nothing we can do about it. It is with this in mind that I comment on my most recent activities in the area of tennis.

My tennis game has improved significantly, you will be pleased to know, since I last reported on it in this column last autumn. The feel for the game that I had in my extreme youth has returned. I no longer wear all-leather Stan Smiths, but my white Lacoste shirts look pleasing against tanned limbs and blonde hair. Tennis is an opportunity to achieve a superior level of fitness, but it also gives us a chance to indulge our need for social interaction, affection, and cocktails. I play weekly with enthusiasm.

The lucky chap with whom I regularly hit the balls is a fit, 6’5” Brazilian of German background, a quantitative analyst at a local asset management firm known for fixed-income business. Despite the advantages of height and fitness he has poor control over the ball, which usually results in wildly off-target shots that keep me scurrying from one side of the court to the other just to maintain the rally. It is a challenge, but I welcome it.

The hot European girls on the neighbouring court, in abbreviated white shorts, white visors, and pony tails, their smooth brown skin glowing through the haze, are a pleasant distraction. Likewise, the gold-vermillion hawks riding low overhead and the solitary raven hopping along the shaded grass under thorn trees. Spiny-scaled lizards scatter into the shrubs. I have seen ugly men, but I have never seen a creature that is not perfect and beautiful.

Has your partner ever been unfaithful to you? Mine has—but when I say partner I mean tennis partner. A few weeks ago I noticed a slight improvement in my friend’s game. When I remarked on it, he sheepishly admitted to having bought a home-made tennis ball machine with which he practices alone at odd hours on the court. The machine itself consists of little more than a pair of large plastic industrial waste buckets, plastic plumbing pipes, a vacuum cleaner engine, and various high-end motorcycle parts. Like a man who discovers his wife has resorted to battery-propelled means for erotic satisfaction, I admit to feeling some irritation.

As you know, I am against robots. I am not a fan of gadgets and contraptions in general. They dehumanise us. They make life without other people possible, desirable and preferable even. They are anti-social. Machines are against life. The one gadget for which I would be willing to make an exception is a cocktail cart, a mobile imbibing device for away-matches, which might be delightfully appropriate in this situation. Do they even make such a thing?

My partner and I play weekly matches of two to three hours in duration, a habit that has resulted in my sustaining acute injuries, including tennis elbow, tennis knee, and damage to my Achilles tendon. Still, we press on. There is no use in surrendering. I live according to the philosophy that if a daily glass of wine is supposed to be good for one’s health, then five or six glasses are even better. Why stop at just one? The key, as in most endeavours, is perseverance. Never give up, even if it means you need to use a cane and codeine to get out of bed in the morning. Your dedication will be rewarded.

Should you find yourself in Laguna Beach, do let me know. A lovely game of tennis, sans ball machine, is just the thing to break the ice and help us forget. Let us set up the cocktail cart, exchange a few toasts, and begin. Reflect upon the moment and enjoy the ritual for what it is. We run about in the light and the heat, a breeze rushing through the coastal palms, and, above us, the hunting-birds floating in the Sun-Wind.

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.