Tennis

Yesterday, as daylight dwindled, Nathan and I drove the half-mile to Bicentennial Park for a set of tennis. Nathan has played junior varsity tennis for Churchill High School for two months now. In spite of that, I thought I could give him a close game.

Gosh, I was wrong. Nathan ran me all around the court. I lost the set 1-6; even worse, I was not competitive at all. Nathan's big serve had always been a formidable, if erratic, weapon. He has greatly improved his accuracy, and he scored several aces in the set.

Nathan has developed these "kill shots" that punish my tendency to keep the ball in play rather than attempt a fancy shot. He can hit a ball down the baseline that skids no more than six inches above the ground, or he can hit a drop shot, make me run up to the net, and then lob his return volley over my head.

One particular game, on my service, stood out to me. I double-faulted (first serve into the net, second serve long): 0-15. Then we volleyed back and forth a few times until he hit a hard, low shot down the baseline: 0-30.

At 0-30, I hit a weak second serve, and I saw Nathan set up for another one of his baseline skidders. I turned and ran to the back right corner, determined not to be beat along the baseline again. But, like LeBron James driving past Antawn Jamison on the baseline in Game 5 of the Cavs/Wizards series, Nathan's shot landed in about a 3-inch gap between my right ankle and the chalk: 0-40.

I managed to reach 30-40, but lost the game. It's not as if I stunk it up out there; Nathan's game has grown to the point where he's that much better a tennis player than I am.