Playing tennis in New York City is very similar to digging bread out of a plugged in toaster with a metal fork. It’s a perilous journey fraught with stupidity, confusion and pain.
I’ve played on courts all over the island of Manhattan and there’s always one or two vicious players that feel the amazing need to somehow involve themselves in your match. These clueless Ninjas are easy to spot. They dress in the latest 1972 tennis fashions including the shortest short-shorts, black socks and running shoes.
Ignore the fact that you have never met these people in your life – they are ready for combat.
I was playing with a young guy named Clay in the shadow of the Riverside Church near Columbia University. On this morning, we signed up on one of the most undesirable courts. Our strategy was that no one would want the damn court and we would be able to complete our league match without interruption. (Cue the maniacal laughter!!)
It was 9am and Clay and I were the only people playing at the courts. That means one court is occupied and nine of them are empty. Clay is just about to serve, when I notice a very ancient pair of shock white legs speeding towards our court in short pants that would make Larry Bird blush.
Just as Clay strikes the ball, Old Man Winter pipes up, “I signed up for this court – Move it!” His voice was labored and straining against the chokehold his tiny britches had on his package.
I saw a look of disbelief in Clay’s eyes. Grandpa snausage paused for two seconds and then sauntered up to Clay and told him, “Let’s move it!”
Clay stepped up into the man’s face and growled, “Are you (expletive) kidding me?”
New Yorkers are such a fascinating species. Here you have a seventy-plus year old man wearing cocktail shorts and he’s ready to mix it up with a big 25-year-old kid with some unresolved anger issues.
Wanting to finish the match and not wanting to see my opponent end up in jail, I said Clay, "It’s not worth it, let’s just move to another court."
We start packing up our gear and Grandpa comes out with, “That's right, get off, let's go, let's go.”
Now I’m wrestling Clay off the court before the elderly abuse can really catch fire. We left the court as skimpy britches kept volleying verbal assaults our way. His friends begged him to shut up, but he was more interested in talking than playing.
You can’t blame him though, if I ever managed to squeeze into shorts that tight, I’d be a man on mission to get on and off the court with as little movement as possible. This would hopefully allow the ambulance time to cut away my offending garments before several amputations were necessary.
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