Our house is filled with tennis stuff: balls, rackets, bags, bands, shoes, trophies, and whatever else. And all of that because of one man: my father. Locally, he’s considered a tennis champion. And for someone who’s well past 65, he could still give the younger players a run for the ball.
Pa lives and breathes tennis. Ma hates him for that.
Had it not been for Sabbaths and bad weather, he’d be at the tennis court every single day. If possible, even the whole day. Also, if there’s a tournament on TV, he’d be staying up late to see the results himself. Or sleep through the results himself—whichever happens first.
Strangely, not one of his kids inherited the love of tennis. That includes me.
Ma had always insisted that he bring us to the court and teach us to play. First part was easy. The second part was challenging. When Pa was younger, when he’d step onto the sand-strewn lot, his hand would be on fire to take a racket and swing at that ball for hours. He was so intense, so focused on his game that he could forget that he brought one of his kids, who made sand castles because there was nothing else better to do there. Worse there was no one to play. Yet that was what he was there for.
After each match he would he remember. That was also when it was too late. He was already too tired to teach. And the kid would be anxious to get home because he was bored.
So while there’s a lot of love for tennis from the king of this house, you won’t get it from any of his heirs.