I promised a post about my roadtrip to Kentucky (and that will come) but first, I have a bit of a true confession. I know I should have gone fishing yesterday morning. Especially since I’m in a fishing rut. But instead of pulling myself out of my dry spell and into my waders, I spent my smidgen of free time on a totally new sport.
I took my inaugural tennis lesson.
Now I actually did take tennis lessons back in the 8th grade. But right when I began to show a modicum of promise and improvement, my instructor suggested to my mother that I move on to a more serious tennis program. Nightmare! One minute I’m out in the sunshine hitting balls with a cute pro who was constantly telling me how talented I was, and the next I was in some windowless tennis warehouse with a bunch of grouchy tennis-clone kids and a Nazi instructor who pretty much yelled at me for 90 solid minutes three times a week. The mere mention of a Juniors Circuit caused me to completely short circuit.
Where was the Grille where I could sign for a burger and a coke? Where were the fun people with warm blood flowing through their veins? I cried bullshit on the whole deal and quit tennis all together. I haven’t even touched a racquet since 1984.
When I mentioned to my dad I was going to try a few lessons, he was nostalgic about my brief adolescent tennis career. He recounted that I actually had a strong backhand with decent topspin, but I wouldn’t run two steps for the ball and never actually wanted to play a game.
Hmmm, a backhanded complement to be sure, but I was undeterred. And once I assured The Professor I would never actually force him to endure playing with me, he enthusiastically got on board and sent me a tennis racquet to start my lessons.
And let’s be honest. My motivation for taking up tennis is pretty much so I can fancy about town in a cute little tennis skirt and do something with my girlfriends that involves more than red wine and talking about our kids. Perhaps this supports both my father’s and The Professor’s assessment that I lack a certain…how do I say…competitive bite? But all I know is that yesterday I spent an hour in the sunshine whacking away at tennis balls, laughing with one of my best girlfriends while a super-sweet pro was telling us we were “doing great!”
Hell yeah, I like tennis.
But don’t worry, you know where my true heart lies. When I went to Academy last week to stock up on tennis skirts I found myself drifting over to the Fishing License desk and ended up buying a TX Saltwater tag. Let’s just say when it comes to redfish, I am starting to get that competitive bite.