hitting the hard court

"I am an Athlete

My sport is tennis

It is my first love

And it will be my last"

In my case, tennis is not my first love. Swimming was. Soccer ranked next. But definitely, it will be my last.

It was some five years ago when tennis became a means to an end. The need was so dire, it necessitated cutting off on some of the essentials to feed the malignant appetite of the inexplicable madness.

Unlike soccer, it only needs two players to get a game going and it isn’t at all difficult to find a willing partner. Just utter anything that has something to do with losing weight. It usually does the trick.

It’s funny how easy the game is like when watching from the baseline. But it is entirely a different matter when wielding a racket and being on the receiving end of the ball.

I started to receive formal instructions in June. The coach of choice is “kumpare” Jet of course. All issues considered, meeting him once a week sounded right (twice, maximum) so the lessons began on the week the Sta. Rosa assignment ended.

The first meeting was disastrous as expected. After being conditioned to receive balls only when it’s threatening to make a goal, this time there’s no time to neither choose nor wait. The balls just kept coming. One hour seemed forever especially when excitement beats preparedness and essentials like water is forgotten.

Coach was late during the second meeting. Well, he is a father first, Coach nth (?). The wait was bearable though. One of the seventh day pastors who came by invited to hit some balls. The exchange was a welcome one and my backhand got better.

Rain beat hard for almost three weeks and playing was impossible. Eating became an alternative. What was lost in two weeks (2 kg, ahem) looked like it didn’t go anywhere at all. But the skies seemed to have cried enough and decided to make up for the days when this piece of earth was cast in gloom.

Last week’s third session witnessed a great change in my forehand. That followed after observing pastor’s wife returning the balls with ease from the baseline. It basically involved swinging the arms casually. The perfect brush was inspiring; it was already 8:30 A.M. when we called it quits. That meant practice lasted almost two hours with minimum breaks (used only five balls).

The heat was shortlived. Well, it's season has passed, that's why. Thank heavens for wii. The game requires the same amount of effort. Unfortunately, nothing can substitute the fun (-) of the real thing.