November 4-7, 2011: Racquetball, Anyone?

November 4-5, 2011

I feel great, fantastic, wonderful, and any other adjective that can be used to describe the splendor of the human condition. My toothache has receded into history, and my bad back has turned good again. No more tedious talk of aches and pains on this blog—no, sir. From here on, it’s all about ass-kicking.

And maybe a little racquetball.

November 6, 2011

My friend Bennett and I have been playing racquetball semi-regularly for about the past 15 years. I approach each of our matches with a combination of glee and dread—glee because racquetball is a blast, dread because the matches always seem to become harrowing tests of will. Consider: We’re both at roughly the same skill level; we’re both relatively quick and, thus, can get to most balls; and we’re both highly competitive. The result is that our points are painfully long and intense. By the end of our racquetball outings, I’m often so soaked with sweat that I can’t get my shirt off.

We’re not as spry as we used to be, but we’re actually in better shape. The passing of time has taught us that we’re not invincible, so we’ve both shed some pounds and some bad habits. We’ve also become wiser. Rather than dive for shots we have little chance of returning, we sometimes just let them go. This sort of mature restraint, we've noted, prevents us from winding up with floor burns on our faces.

Given my laundry list of infirmities the past couple months, Bennett and I haven’t been playing racquetball. But like I said, I’m better now. I’m feeling so robust, in fact, that it’s time to reignite our rivalry. I drive to Bennett’s house, say hi to his trusty dog Bruno, and roust him from his near-slumber on the couch.

“Ready?” I ask, eyeing him intensely.

“Yes,” he answers, eyeing me equally intensely, or maybe just sleepily.

First, though, Bennett must find his racket. He scours his garage—no luck. He scours his family room—no luck. He scours his bedroom—no luck. After several more minutes of scouring, he finds it in the food pantry. Of course—who wouldn’t store a racket in the food pantry?

It’s off to the Y, and I’m jacked. As we wage an epic battle in the first game, I’m in top form. I’m getting to nearly everything, and I’m confounding Bennett with craftily placed balls in the corners of the court. Even though I choke in the end—I blow an 11-6 lead and lose 15-12—I’m not mad.

“That was the best racquetball we’ve played in a long time,” I say between games. “I’ll put us up against anyone our age.”

Indeed, I’m raring to go, so much so that I jump out to a 3-0 lead in the second game. I’m moving my feet like a man half my age, I’m hitting the ball with power and precision, and I’m anticipating Bennett’s shots.

It’s glorious.

As I stretch for a backhand on yet another hard-fought point, I’m taking no prisoners. I’m the very definition of determination…right up until I feel a pop in my groin and fall to the floor in agony.

“You all right, Wags?” I hear Bennett say.

Facedown on the hardwood, I yelp, “No…my groin…fuck.”

“What happened?” he asks.

“Groin…fuck,” I respond with clenched teeth.

“You want some help getting up?” Bennett inquires.

“Fuck…groin.”

After a few minutes, the pain subsides slightly. Bennett helps me to my feet, and I say, “Let’s try to keep playing.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I was having too much fun to quit.”

Plus, I’m winning.

I stand there waiting for Bennett to serve. I can move neither left nor right, neither forward nor backward—I’m a statue.

“On second thought, maybe I’m done,” I finally concede.

November 7, 2011

I’m trying to get dressed so that I can make my morning commute to the dining room table, but this proves difficult due to my gimpy groin. Luckily, Cassie is kind enough to put my socks on for me. (My kids, ingrates that they are, refused.)

“I just had a scary premonition,” she says. “Is this what old age will be like?”

Wow, that is a scary thought. I wanted this blog entry to be about redemption and pride and ass-kicking and the like—but no. Instead, it ends with my wife putting my socks on because I can’t bend over. If real life doesn’t deliver me some better blog material in a hurry, I’m going to have to start making stuff up.