For the second time in a week, I played tennis with my son. Due to a lack of available subs at the tennis club where we both work, we found ourselves pressed into service to even out the courts. Nothing unusual about that. We're both paid to play tennis occasionally, one of our job's best perks. What was surprising about this particular circumstance was my son's desire to play on the same court. While my insecurity and general neurosis led me to believe that he would rather play with complete strangers than risk being embarrassed by his mom, I was thrilled when he wanted to jockey some of the players around to other courts in order for us to play together.
Our opponents, two friendly, accommodating ladies, begged him to "play nice". They could see that his natural athleticism and power would be overwhelming weapons if he decided to unleash them. They needn't have worried. He had no intention of beating up on them. He saved that for the woman who gave birth to him.
His first serve to me was a rocket that hit me in the stomach. I knew it was coming. I've known this kid for twenty-two years. I knew he couldn't resist showing off. He wasn't about to play his regular game against the other ladies but knocking mom on her keester, that was completely acceptable. Better yet, it was fun.
We played for an hour and a half. One third of the time we were teammates; two thirds of the time, opponents. He never did hit me again; he just ran me around the court with wicked backhands and well-placed lobs. I didn't play particularly well. I guess I was trying too hard; trying to make him proud of his old mom. Maybe that's just one more thing we have in common.
That's interesting. Typical guy--ply the testosterone for all it's worth, establish alpha-male territory, then play nice-nice to everyone. The gentle giant. It's a male thing. A youthful male thing. As he grows older, he will flex less muscular bravado and feel more comfortable with his role as a gentleman.
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