I walk onto the deep blue and white lined tennis court.
I was working for a Rastafarian stucco crew.
Danny and I had been discussing female players, and I, half-jokingly, said,
“I could beat any woman player.
I could beat Stephanie Graf.”
Danny, the Jewish Rasta, said, “I know a woman you couldn’t beat.”
I slammed a 5lb trowel of cement on the freshly lathed wall.
“Bring her on.” I responded quietly.
Tuesday morning in the already blazing heat of July,. in the grass of an upscale backyard in Rio Rancho I’m pushing a wheelbarrow filled with wet lime up the muddy side of a hill towards the structure.
Dan looks over at me, “My friend Patty will play you. We’re off tomorrow, so I told her you’d meet her at the Rio Rancho courts.”
“I’ll be there, my brother.”
“She’s good.” Says Dan, evenly.
I looked at Dan, and flexed my right forearm and bicep and tensed my chest.
I thought I was in pretty fair shape.
“I will beat her, Dan.”
So here it was, the match.
Dan had told Patty, the day before that, “This guy at work says he can beat any woman player.”
Patty was one of the state’s top woman players, although I didn’t know it until the next day.
I served first.
I tossed the fuzzy green sphere, coiled my body , and served one of the best serves I had ever hit.
The shot cracked like the sound of a .22 at close range.
I smile, perfect serve.
With some surprise I see it’s coming back.
That’s okay, plenty of time.
I slide to the left, and plant my feet,
I scrape the racket on the ground as I bring it forward
And with the effortlessness of a Zen martial arts move I power through the ball, which flattens and accelerates towards my opponents backhand.
She whacks it back, and I’m sprinting again.
We rallied back and forth .
On the 20th
shot of the point she sailed a backhand past me.
I realized I was in big trouble.
And tired.
I stalled.
I tapped my shoes to loosen the dirt.
I grabbed my towel and wiped off.
I walked back to the service line and whacked a sizzling kick serve out wide.
She hit it back, hard.
The battle resumes..
I feel good, loose.
On the eighth shot I slap a return into the net.
I lose the next two points, its game point.
I towel down, pour ice water on my face and neck, take some deep breathes, and walk back to the court,
I don’t look at Patty.
I don’t want to see the growing look of confidence on her face.
I hit another hard slice serve, she powers the ball back, far to my backhand..
I grimace as I perform contortions 40 year olds don’t normally do, slide and, grazing the underside of the ball, just mange a low chip shot which lands good ,
From the back of the court she yells, “Oh no!”
and comes running for the ball, her racket already extended,
She doesn’t have a chance, she gets her racket on it but it dies in the net on her side.
I won a point.
She has a weakness.
I could win this one yet.
