40-love, so what? I love this game

By Ron Judd
Seattle Times staff columnist

"Nice shot."

That's what I heard my mouth saying. Pretty sure, anyway. It's hard to hear any sounds emanating from your body when your lungs are roaring like a '73 Ford Torino pulling a Clydesdale trailer up Washington Pass.

Inside, however, the voice was loud and clear — and ugly.

I wasn't cursing at Emjay, who was standing on the other side of the net, holding a tennis racket, as I chased the ball into the corner of the court just down the road from Escrow Heights. I was cursing my own legs — the things that are supposed to get you from Point A to Tennis Ball B before it bounces five or six times and rolls all the way to Ferndale.

"I'll never get to those," I sneered to myself, as I outwardly cracked a smile and uttered, between gasps, "Slipped a little there!"
Anything to save face.

The truth: Even after doing it only a half-dozen times, I love to play tennis. The greater truth: I'm about as good at it as my dog Mabel is at assembling a dresser from Ikea. Not that she wouldn't try, in a pinch. Or that I wouldn't, when asked.

And on a recent crisp, golden autumn afternoon, I was.

"Look outside," Emjay was saying, with the kind of glint that invariably leaves me splayed out, like a played-out halibut, on a training table in some physical therapist's office the next morning. "We should play tennis!"

What you need to know about Emjay is that she is the consummate multisport athlete. Hailing from Lake Placid, N.Y., she was reared on those select, unbearably torturous, Winter Olympic sports that only people in pursuit of a medal — or with a serious mental imbalance — can truly appreciate.

Nordic skiing. Broomball. Ice hockey. Ice skating. Ice dancing. Ice cycling. Ice climbing. Ice croquet. Ice Twister. Ice eating. Etc.
Later, she moved to warmer, even more God-forsaken places such as Florida and Colorado, where she became adept at swimming, long-distance running and cycling on hills God clearly intended to be scaled by SUVs and helicopters. This acute mental illness ultimately manifested itself in marathon and triathlon competitions.

And somewhere in between, before and during her college phase, Emjay became a competitive tennis player. Even 20 years later, she is still competitive, and even though she tries, and mostly succeeds, at taking it extremely easy on the lumbering whale across the net, this occasionally shows through.

Obviously, she could beat me 150 or 160 points in a row, rendering me as worthless and demoralized as Alex Rodriguez at the plate in the deciding game of a Division Series. But being a humanitarian — or perhaps more like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse — she lets me cling to hope, both for my ego and to keep me playing.

For example, she'll spot me a 40-love advantage, creating at least a small measure of suspense, based mostly on the possibility that she might be struck by lightning, or perhaps dumped upon by a large passing bird during a rally, allowing one of my feeble forehands to sneak past her.

On one occasion — likely abetted, I learned later, by a pulled muscle in her calf — I nearly won a point honestly, which rattled her so much that she promptly double-faulted, giving me the game and of course unleashing a manic, chicken-dance celebration on my side of the court.

She was wise enough to never let that happen again. The last thing you want to give a pre-vanquished opponent is some unreasonable sign of hope.

And so on we go, hobbling around the court and prompting small children passing by at the city park to stop and ask: "Mommy, why is that woman hitting tennis balls to that manatee?"

Along the way, Emjay — who also has coached — has helped me identify a couple minor flaws in my game.

Namely, I don't have a backhand. Come to think of it, I don't have much of a forehand, either. Somewhere between her striking the ball and me running toward it, my usually reliable right hand instinctively shrivels into a twisted claw, causing the racket to turn at an odd angle and, most of the time, the ball to careen off the frame with a humiliating "DONK!"

Even so, my underlying natural grace manages to shine through. And Emjay, ever the diplomat, always finds something complimentary to say. Such as: "I can't believe how many of those actually get over the net!"

Hey: When you've got it, you've got it. My advice: Just don't try to put it on public display.

This thing is bound to continue through the fall, and next time we play, I'm taking along a pallet or two of Big Blue Tarps. Not to cover our game from the rain. Just to hide it.

Credit to: http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/traveloutdoors/2003299202_nwwtrailmix12.html

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