Whack Job
Session is in court
In Los Angeles (and other cities maybe, who cares, this isn’t a newsletter about them) there are bountiful, well-maintained public tennis courts. After all, this town nurtured the best tennis player of all time, in addition to a bunch of other tennis players that are also “up there” (technical term). Turns out investing in public parks means public parks will be used by the public, eventually honoring that initial investment with glorious, global renown. Strange how that works!
Last week, my sister made a reservation for one of these public courts on Thursday evening, and we packed into my husband’s Honda fit and headed to Griffith Park. When we arrived at our destination, our court was occupied by some white men in white and one of them made it very clear that he “RESERVED THIS COURT FOR TWO HOURS!” My sister had accidentally made our reservation for the next day. We slunk away and drove five minutes to the open courts, which are actually much prettier than the reservation-only ones. After interrogating a white man in whites (men love tennis!) about the waiting etiquette (it was: wait until a court is open), we waited for a court to open.
The courts were occupied by hot Europeans, hot Americans, and some normal people. None of them seemed like they’d get tired soon. We sat on the grass, child-like, as the sun slowly set, inventing competitions like, “Who Can Bounce the Ball on Their Racket the Most Times?”. This was not as fun as competing in an actual tennis game.
After it became clear that no one was surrendering their courts any time soon, we gave up and headed back to the car. Just like the Williams sisters!
The next day we returned for our actual tennis reservation. Midway through, I went to serve and my foot caught on something. At first, I thought it was a stray ball. In fact, it was one of the soles of my decades-old tennis shoes that had flopped off mid-game. I was forced to retire to the sidelines, which was probably for the best because I was getting blisters from my racket grip, which had been covered in painter’s tape due to the fact it was melting. My sister said I looked like one of the Beales. All I was missing was the silk scarf, which I could’ve used to tie that sole back to my shoe…
On the next court, a father put his tiny son through some intense tennis paces. The son was way better than any of us. Perhaps we were witnessing another GOAT in the making. One day he would describe his humble beginnings, whacking balls amid the huddled masses and their flapping shoes.