I first wanted to play tennis when I was eleven. But, I didn’t actually play, and neither did any of the 5th-heading-to-6th graders who were unlucky enough to take tennis in summer school in 1971. Shit, I even got a racket, a Pancho Gonzales model I got in exchange for two books of Blue Chip Stamps. I also had enough dough on hand to buy a can of Slazenger tennis balls. My dearest piece of tennis swag was the neat little ball pouch my mom made for me. Rather than lug that silly, cylindrical tin can around I carried my three new tennis balls in the pouch my mother made, complete with drawstring fashioned from an old venetian blind pull-cord.

Rockin’ for sure. 

The only problem, as I mentioned, was that we never hit a ball and the class was unceremoniously cancelled after the first session. It seems no one realized a tennis court needs a net for the game to be a game. Sure, we could have banged balls against the handball court that stood a few feet away but no one thought of that. So, the Spalding tennis racket went home and our springer spaniel, Bo, got to shred the new Slazengers to pieces. There’s always someone who’s happy with an outcome.

Fast forward to late summer of 2023. I’m 62 and I’ve still never played tennis, yet a coalescence of forces somehow got me started in the game. First, was my friend Michael who early in our largely-telephonic relationship would tell me, “Paulie, you’d love tennis!” 

Where Michael got the nerve to call me Paulie I will never know. 

The second force was a spur-of-the-moment stop at nearby Calabasas Tennis & Swim Center. I’d been thinking of taking swimming lessons but nothing had panned out at nearby Pierce College. Indoor pools (like those at area YMCAs) lost their appeal sometime early in the pandemic. After the visit, I found myself checking out the club’s website when I noticed a list of tennis coaches. One name stuck out, I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the first name, Caesar. Heck, I’ve always wanted to know someone named Caesar. Plus, he’d worked with wheel-chair players. I figured anyone who could do that successfully had a decent chance with broken-down me. I sent Caesar an email and waited— for about an hour. Turns out he had time the next day, Monday. Talk about the ball being in my court. I thought it over for a minute before I fired back an email saying I’d be there.

I was ready, if ready meant wearing one of my best golf polos, a pair of khaki golf shorts and my old Nike gym shoes. Caesar was kind enough to offer the loan of one of his cool Tecnifibre rackets. My first lesson was the end of July and it was hot, just the way I like it. One of the unexpected yet best things about taking up something like tennis at my age is this: I had absolutely no idea what to expect. Would I even have a chance to swing at the ball during my first lesson? I remember stories of John Wooden spending the first practice going over the proper way to tie a basketball shoe;  a method that prevented blisters, turned ankles and laces that untied themselves during a game. Maybe that would be how it was. Another nightmare vision stressed running, more running than I could do at 62 and maybe more than I could have done at 42. Caesar is a no-nonsense kind of guy with an outwardly easy yet somehow intense brand of focus. Caesar’s racket in hand I stroked short forehands from the forward-service line as he hit the ball lazily back over the net. I was overjoyed when my first swing sent the ball right back to him. Amazing.

Better than the result, an outcome wholly irrelevant when you consider we weren’t playing a game, was the feeling. It felt good. I could feel the ball and the tension of strings come together before the ball made its way back into Caesar’s court. That was only a few months ago, in late July, but after only a few more swings I was hooked. It wasn’t as if every shot was perfect, or even successful. There was some magical combination of my motion and watching the approach of the ball and unconsciously aligning my body in a way that gave me a clean cut at the ball that grabbed me right away. Michael was right.

Every few balls, after I’d swatted a ball into the net or fouled one off into the court adjacent to us, Caesar would stop long enough for a chat at the net. Those breaks were a relief, a chance for my arm to recover and for me to catch my breath. Caesar always, and I mean to this day, many, many lessons later, always starts by saying something positive before moving on toward something that needs correction, like my forehand follow through.

Caesar’s positive style is still perfect for me, especially with my well-developed ability to be critical of myself. The overall vibe of the club was similarly positive though it took me a while to specify everything I experienced and saw that made it feel that way. First, and this was unexpected, was the presence of actual women. I mean, there were women everywhere, I’m guessing at least half of the people taking lessons were women and an even greater percentage of those who were playing, usually doubles. There were young women, well-tended middle-aged women, little girls and one woman, who had to be at least 75, carrying a Babolat bag that must have weighed at least half as much as she did. 

Being on the tennis courts felt like being out in the world. It was nothing like being on a golf course where 95% of the players were just like me; late middle-aged men. In golf, women and girls are so much in the minority that they always stick out in a way that disadvantages them. But in tennis, they all seemed so at home, so empowered, so much as if they belonged, which they do. Being better for them makes it better for everyone, including me. Even better is the vibe that extends to the way lessons are given. Walking by the courts you can hear students and coaches chatting with each other, sharing a laugh at shots, both good and bad. And, usually, student and coach are playing some approximation of tennis itself. This is almost never true in golf, where the instructor usually stands, arms crossed, observing the student and commenting on an occasional shot.

Stifling. 

Even though I was gassed after my lesson I could feel a connection to the game I had never felt before, except in baseball. It wasn’t like I was great at it, I’m still not. It was the way my motion and flight of the ball and the eventual meeting of the ball and the racket brought a feeling that was just right. Now, when it comes to tennis feeling right it’s not exactly feeling. And, while some elements of tennis do feel natural there are a myriad of details to monitor to make the shot come off, and not all of those come easily. Example? The toss that precedes a serve. More on that later.

Occasionally, in the same way one’s thoughts might drift toward the consideration of mortality, I wonder what might have been if I had turned to tennis when I was 52 or 42 or 32 or 15? It’s fun to think about the rackets of each era, especially the ones that were used when I was 15 in 1976. The Pancho Gonzales model I had when I was 11 would have come in handy, I suppose. But, I manage to keep those feelings away and to stay in the moment, as tennis demands.

Every time I walk onto the court, I feel lucky, and that’s a gift in itself.