It's about this time of year that I fancy myself a better tennis player than I really am. After a summer of watching the best in the world at the French Open, Wimbledon and the U.S. Open, I start to believe that these many hours of watching tennis have somehow translated into an improvement in my own modest playing ability. What, you haven't heard of osmosis? Anyway, in one of these delusional moments, I made the mistake of saying yes to my twenty-one year old son when he said, "Hey, Mom, want to go hit the courts for awhile?" Okay, maybe it wasn't a mistake to say yes. It did get my sorry butt off the couch. But it sure wasn't my smartest move to do so at noon on an 85 degree day.
I wish I could say that my son took pity on his mom. Obviously, I didn't spend enough time working on developing his compassion. I think it was about the time that he realized that the color of my face was looking eerily like the strawberry Gatorade he was drinking that he decided to back off. After all, he wanted to beat me, not kill me. (I think). So while I hobbled off to find some shade, he continued to work on his serve. Watching his ability to deal with both the heat and the exertion, I couldn't help feeling envious. I didn't discover my love of tennis until I was almost twice his age, definitely past my physical prime and I now have to face the truth that I'm not likely to get any better at the sport I love than I am now. So, I guess I'll just have to be content with spending some time with my boy sharing a sport we both love. But next time, I plan on scheduling it when I can't fry an egg on the sidewalk. If that doesn't work out, there's always Wi. Indoor tennis and air conditioning. Sounds pretty good.
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