My Initiation into Tennis

     Early this morning I played tennis -- doubles, because singles is simply too exhausting. My league, comprised of ten lovely and remarkable Staten Island moms, converge on two courts every Wednesday morning for 90 minutes of fun. Playing well is hit or miss, no pun intended, and today was my lucky day. My partner and I killed both sets, 6-1, 6-0.  As the foursome ritually shook hands at the net before we all proceeded to breakfast, someone lovingly joked, "Wow, Gracelyn, great playing. Big change from that first time we played."

     Did she have to bring THAT up... one of the most humiliating experiences of my life? 

     Five summers ago, I decided that I was not getting any younger -- or fitter--  in the mostly sedentary lifestyle I led. After all, how many calories do I burn, sitting all day doing crown and bridge, after which I sit some more, driving my kids to basketball and swim practices? Not much.

     I resolved to take up tennis.  I delved into group clinics, bought a couple of cute outfits at Modell's and bit the bullet.  I joined a summer tennis league at the urging of a fellow racquet-wielding dentist friend of mine and soon opening day arrived.  The sun was glorious, the sky was blue, and was it me or was everyone -- except me -- a size 2 and glowing with their perfect smiles and impressive tans? And what was up with all the 3:2 leg to torso ratios and looking fabulous in very short tennis skirts, anyway?

     To say the first few points of the first set was underwhelming is the understatement of the year. My insecurities about my backhand were palpable, my racing heartbeat probably audible. As wonderfully welcoming and polite as everyone was TO me on my tennis court debut, I distinctly sensed the pity they must've had FOR me.  I double-faulted and missed some easy lobs, coming at me so slowly it was practically going backward. 

     Generally uncomfortable with people feeling sorry for me, I stepped up my game a little. I took a deep breath and focused, and let it rip. I used visualization and applied everything I'd ever learned in tennis lessons.  I channeled Serena and Maria in every Grand Slam I'd ever watched in my life, and -- whammo! -- things started looking up.  Soon it was 40-15, us, and then 5-3 games, us, then even a set victory.  It worked!  Perhaps I wasn't the worst tennis player they'd ever had the misfortune of inviting to join their league.

     Tennis ego inflated at this point, I played the net for the second set. I moved easily to and fro, returning lobs, slicing away.  Then it happened... an angled shot came at me with such velocity... a shot that clearly I was too new (and too old) to ever get... but I went for it.  At top speed, I raced to the right from the midline, hyper-extending my forehand to make contact... lost my balance on the gravelly, true-hard court... and ran right into the fence.  Oh, the humanity!

     I wanted to die, not from my injuries, but from embarrassment. The next few seconds were a blur and found me lying there, on the side of the court, knees scraped, shoulder bruised, and my tennis whites not so white.

     I'm not sure if I lost consciousness, but for sure I found out first-hand what being "winded" was. I couldn't, for the life of me, catch my breath enough to answer the gasps of horror from all who witnessed my wipe-out of epic proportions. 

     Trying desperately to regain my composure I had left, everyone hovered over me, to make sure I was still alive, as I lay pathetically on the tennis court. I couldn't find my racquet.  Or my dignity.  Then the questions started from what seemed like far-away voices started.  There were lots of "Are you ok's?" and "Oh my God, Gracelyn, are you hurt?" Then there were, "Did you break anything?"  "Should I run and get ice?"  And my personal favorite, from my fellow-dentist friend, "Is your disability insurance premium paid up?"

     They picked me up and dusted me off. I walked it off for the next few minutes, checking to see if I had fractured any bones, pulled any muscles. I hadn't. Just a bruised ego.  I forced a smile on my face enough to finish the second set, which we lost, and went straight home. I took a shower, iced my knee, Neosporined my cuts, and went to work. I downed two Motrins.     

     Looking back, I can now laugh at the events of that morning now, thankful I can hold my own of late on the tennis court, thoroughly loving the two tennis leagues I play in now. Tennis and photography are still my MOST favorite things to do in between work and taking care of my family. I still have the tennis outfit that was ruined that day, however, just as a reminder  of my truly unforgettable first day of tennis. In the worst possible way.