One Last Ball..

I sat fidgety atop my club's veranda trying to stay loose, stretching my cramping too-tanned legs for my final lesson of the day. Yet my client was late. Calls to his number got us nowhere, none of the girls at the desk recognized his name. Inches away from my favorite kind of lesson, the no-show, no-call, still get-paid type, I heard the rumblings of a classic car muffler circling the parking lot past the tree line. The ultimate mixed feeling. The tired sore part of me aching for early quits, the professional in me trained to be patient and understanding. My coach's periscope activated, I scanned the horizon profiling all within site when down the shrub-lined pathway an elderly gentleman appeared.

On a scalding hot and humid summer afternoon he was covered head to toe in old school tennis attire. His bottoms pleated white tennis pants, his top a zip up the front white jacket top with the collar flipped up, white gloves covering both his hands, a classic look from another time, he looked like he walked off the cover of a 1958 Wimbledon Program. Completing the look was a white captain hat with a full grey beard, reminiscent of how Ernest Hemingway appeared in his elderly years. And making the ensemble complete was a Tad Davis wood racket cover he had slung over his shoulder, a racket I recognized immediately from my youth for my father once owned several of these craftsman's tools many moons ago.

As he approached the deck he affably shouted out "Greetings" in my direction, seeming to know me yet I not him.

"Sorry I'm late, I'm your 3 o'clock today"

"Ummmm, Ok. Have we met before?"

"You're the California kid, aren't ya?'

"Well, I haven't been a kid for a while, but the California part is right on."

"Yes, I asked for you. I saw you hitting with my grandson a couple weeks back then saw you running all over the place trying to hang in there with all those younger pros. You seemed to really love it, being out there playing hard still. Got me to thinking how much I'd love to get out there again to play just one more time."

"Well alright then! Follow me this way to the courts and let's see what we can come up with. "

He walked slowly, yet steadily toward our court, my mind working fast about what on Earth to do with him. We take all comers in our profession but I'm sure I had never played with someone his age before, especially in the middle of a sweltering East Coast summer's day. It would take every bit of skill I had to make this work.

"Mind if I ask..."

"88...I'm 88...Started playing when I was 5..."

"Whoa..I wasn't going to ask your age, but thanks for sharing. I wanted to ask what was the last time you hit?"

"How old are you, 50?

"Exactly"

"About 40 years ago. Right around your age. Then the skin happened."

He unzipped his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his long-sleeved shirt to reveal an arm scarred and scabbed with barely any healthy skin remaining. He quickly rolled the sleeve back down, zipping the jacket back up. I didn't need to ask. He was a skin cancer survivor, who probably shouldn't be standing across a tennis net from me on this scalding New York summer's day. But there he stood, racket in hand, braces up and down his right arm and leg, looking to me for something... something I couldn't quite get my head around yet.

"So the last time you played regularly was 40 years ago? How about we start really slow-like. Wanna try some of that short court stuff all the cool kids do these days?"

He waved my suggestion off.

"Just feed me a couple short ones."

He pulled his Davis racket out adorned with a perfect Fairway leather grip and a VS stencil on his new gut strings, a beautiful piece of etched wood tennis racket art even the most ardent tree hugger would approve.

"Been saving this one." He said

"It's simply beautiful" I responded

I sheepishly pulled out my Babolat Pure Drive composite with poly strings, Tournagrip, and a vibration dampener, instantly feeling somewhat inferior to my opponent from a different place and time.

"Should we spin for side? I see you have rough or smooth on your racket there..."

He looked slowly down at the string bed of his racket. It had been some time since anyone asked him a question that had anything to do with playing tennis. He looked back up, then over toward me, then back down again, a wry smile spreading across his face, a glint in his eye smiling back at me. He was pleased. He saw I was getting why he was here.

We tried a few short ones. He failed terribly at trying to control his swing. Sensing his frustration, I suggested he go all the way back and take some full cuts. Without a word, he turned away, walking back toward the baseline, slowly, slightly hunched, but with a gate of determination I couldn't help but feel.

Feeding tennis balls is an underrated skill. Pace, depth, height, and spin determine everything. A good feeder can make the person across the net look like Federer once we figure out the ball they hit best. His swing called for a low knee-high deep feed, with no spin and above-average speed, giving him a ball he could work with. Within his first full swings, I could tell he played as a kid and likely a lot, for he had that elusive swing fluidity only flexible children can develop, leaving those who learn the game as adults in a perpetual state of swing envy no matter how many lessons they take.

With each swing, his body got a little looser, his swing a little longer. Shots that were dribbling weakly to the net soon started sneaking over, then carrying into the court ever deeper and deeper. After a couple dozen balls he was swinging freely, the teacher and student locked into our odd symbiotic dance and rhythm. Who would blink first? He was finding his groove. I didn't dare speak. Still trying to figure out what he sought from me this afternoon on a backcourt on Long Island, I sensed he was seeking something in those swings that had little to do with improving his tennis.

He soon began to whither, the energy coming out of his swing with each subsequent one. A few bad misses in a row and we were heading toward our first break. Head down, he walked slowly toward the canopy and some shade. I hurried to get him some water, greeting him with a full cup as he neared the bench.

"You could have picked a cooler time of day to start your comeback you know" I muttered half-jokingly, half-not.

He took the final steps toward the bench like a distance runner reaching for the finish, the end in sight, the body relaxing and collapsing at the line. He straightened himself on the bench, letting out a big sigh...

"What the fuck was I thinking coming out here now. And I signed up with you for an hour. I'll be lucky to make half of it."

We sat down under the canopy. "Well, you obviously played a lot in your day. I can see it in your form. When was your best stretch?"

"My best one? When you get to be my age, it's hard to remember them all. As a kid, I was a top junior right from the start. Was one of the best in the nation, right up until the War"

I paused. Confronted by the ridiculous ease of the generation I was raised.."Yeah, those World Wars. They sure did get in the way of things."

"Just a little bit. Fortunately, I never saw combat but we all had to work and do our part. So that was 5 years off tennis, then I went to school, played a bunch in college, then a few more years off for my career and kids and stuff"

"Life getting in the way of leisure again!! Those careers do cut into practice time"

"Then in my mid-30s and up into my 40s, it was great. High-ranked local player, playing senior tournaments every weekend everywhere. I just loved it. Then the shoulder went, then the elbow, then the knees. Which wasn't fun, but I could still play. Then I got my first scare with the skin and all, and that was it. They said no more sun for me or else. But even with all that, knowing I couldn't play and shouldn't play, a part of me really missed it. Missed it badly seeing others still able to play. And I know I'm old, my body is pretty much shot. But there's a part of my brain that never grew up, that still wants to play. It didn't get old like the rest of me. It always held out hope that maybe someday I could get out to play one more time.


"And here you are. I think this is great. What is it I can do for you today?"

He paused a moment..."Today, I just want to hit a couple good ones, real good ones. It's been 40 years since I last hit I want to feel that feeling one more time and make it my last ball. Something always ate at me, the way I had to give it up back then. I wasn't done with it. It was my medicine. It fed my soul. It was my first real love. And it just killed me to not be able to play anymore. Hell, I couldn't even watch tennis for years, it would get me all agitated and thinking and stuff and my wife would see me start thinking, and by the way, if she knew I was here right now, she'd kill me. But my son got my grandkids playing. I thought I could take them here to watch and not get bothered. But no luck there. Then I saw you running around and I got to thinking, maybe I could get one honest point off you and put it away for good."

"Well, you ain't gonna win that point sitting under this canopy. Let's get out there and try a few more."

He dug his Tad Davis racket into the clay to help him to his feet.

"That moment when your racket doubles as a cane".I said.
"No shit." His eyes lighting up again. "It's gotta be good for something. Let me come up to the net and slow it down a bit with some volleys."

As he parked himself right atop the net, I didn't have the heart to say take a couple steps back. I fired a few at him, but he soon began to tire. The racket began to drop, the wrist wasn't holding, his feet were stuck. As a breeze picked up, it was getting harder and harder to put the ball right on his racket. A couple more mishits in a row, and boom, there went his racket flying into the net and

"Shit!!!"

It took everything I had not to laugh. To kill the tension, I jumped in.."Can I ask you a question? This yelling at yourself stuff for missing a tennis shot. Apparently, we never outgrow that?

"Apparently not. I can't fucking make one"

"Forget the volleys. I think you're net-rushing days ended with Disco. Just back up. Let me feed you a few more ground strokes."

He turned to walk away, a little slower this time than before, but no less determined. He continued to swing away, forehands and backhands, after every ten balls slowly losing steam. We took a few more water breaks. He told me more about his life. I shared avidly about mine. Figuring he was down to his last set of balls, I asked him if there was any last thing he wanted to do.

"Yeah, there is. Serve a couple at me. And hit 'em!!!"

We headed back to the court, him looking a little unsteady. I hit my first serve smoothly in the box. He let it go by without swinging.

"Hit it, I said!!"

"OK OK...Be ready, I might serve and volley on you this time."

The next serve I hit a good deal harder right in his wheelhouse, All he had to do was turn and swing, and did he ever, hitting his best forehand of the day for a winner with room to spare.

"Excellent!!!" I declared as I walked back slowly to the fence to retrieve another ball. As I turned to approach the line to serve again, I looked up to see him walking to the bench, already halfway there. My first thought was concern, it was hot as hell, I was feeling it myself. I paused to watch him as he walked head down over to the bench, where he picked up his racket cover, putting his racket away.

"Is everything OK?".I uttered somewhat concerned.

"Absolutely. That was it. That was what I needed. I've decided that is going to be my last ball." And as he said that, he put his racket down, picked up a ball hopper, and started to pick up the balls.

"Here, you don't have to get those. I'll get them up. You just rest a bit."

He ignored me completely, proceeding to slowly walk about his half of the court picking up the stray balls. Our lesson was over, at least the tennis portion of it was.

We both picked up our respective sides, meeting again at the bench.

He shook my hand vigorously, thanking me for allowing him his final moment.

"There's going to be a day you can't do this anymore. And if you're anything like me, you'll really miss it. Don't take it for granted"

He turned slowly to walk away, thanking me one more time. Yet, weirdly, as he walked toward the gate, a part of me felt like I should be thanking him, for allowing me to share in his moment, as a perfectly normal day on the job turned special, our sport of a lifetime delivering in spades once again.