Ed Schmahl
When you get to a certain age, like me, a mere mumblety-mumble years old, there seem to be limits on your activity that didn’t exist when you were a teenager, or a thirty-something, or even a forty-something. But I can’t resist trying. When the call comes, I can’t say no. The lure is too strong, the primal urge too powerful to struggle. I have to say, “Yes, yes, yes, now is fine, let’s do it.” For a year, it was just once a week, but now I’m called to double my efforts, and so I do what I must.
The siren song of the swing of the racquet, the “plock” of the ball against the walls, the magic of the three-dimensional trajectory between the bounce and the hit, all of these are irresistible. When I’m invited to play, I never turn down the request.
Patrick and I enjoyed our weekly racquetball games on a regular basis from 2002 to mid-2003, and then Dominic Zarro, a fellow worker at Goddard, found that I’m a racquetball junkie like he used to be, and asked me to play. We started playing regular r-ball just about the time that Katie got involved in the game. But what saved me from tendinitis ruin and knee mutilation was that the only day of the week that both she and Patrick could play was Thursday, and so we played “cut-throat”, a 3-way game of racquetball. Katie, being a beginner, Patrick and I played against her left-handed, and what a relief that was! It was a kinder, gentler game, so much fun, and so relaxing, I didn’t care who won. Unlike the 2-player games between Patrick and me, where it was a deadly serious duel to the finish, our cut-throat games were full of laughs and wild swings and left-handed misses. So playing an additional few games against Dominic on Saturdays every week wasn’t the arm-wracker that it would have been if Katie hadn’t got interested in the game..
Dominic, now in his mid-50s youth, used to be a really tough player back in the last age. His super-spinner 3-wall returns were absolutely deadly, and his left-corner serves were unhittable. But his love for pasta has gotten the better of him, and now being totally out of shape, I can exploit my left-right-left-wear-him-down strategy (which totally fails with Patrick). Just let Dominic miss his target once on that left-corner serve, and I’d set up a volley, returning first to one side, then the other, forcing him to run back and forth across the court over and over. I didn’t try for “kills”, and just set up returns to wear him down. So usually by the 2nd game, he was panting like a racehorse, and then I could beat him by increasing amounts like 15-10, 15-8, 15-4 in the next 3 games. Finally, not having the strength to do more than shuffle, he’d have to cry “uncle”, and retire for the day.
Last summer Dominic took his family back to see his parents in Australia in Sydney, his home town. He had promised to himself that he’d do a lot of walking and keep fit while there so he’d play better r-ball when he returned. But his mom’s cooking was too good, and he gained 10 pounds. So when he returned to Maryland, my wear-him-down strategy continued to work.
Katie, being more serious about school than racquetball (how could I raise a daughter with such strange priorities?) couldn’t always play on the regulation Thursday. So once in a while, Patrick and I played our usual exhausting one-on-one. And a couple of weeks ago, the day after a tough 4-game series with Patrick, when Dominic called to find out if he should reserve a court at the Community Center tomorrow, I couldn’t resist. I said, “Sure”, and went to the medicine cabinet to call on Dr. Ibo-advil Motrin to get ready.
The next morning on the court, Dominic was “on”. He was wired. His left-corner serves were bullets into the center of the bulls-eye, and his sneaky side-wall-front-grazer shots fell in place like they were ruled by a stylus. I squeaked ahead of him on the scoreboard, only because his precisely-repeated serves to my left have given me some practice, and I’ve learned to change my stance while waiting for the serve, so I can throw my body weight behind my weak backhand. I managed to win 15-13.
Strangely, however, after this game, Dominic didn’t look tired. What happened? Did he eat Wheaties this morning instead of spaghetti? Did he have a double venti espresso before the game? He was still “on” as we started the second game, and his bullet serves to the left were more accurate than ever. He moved ahead 5-0. “I’m getting skunked!” I muttered to myself. He pulled further ahead, mixing up one side-wall-front-grazer shot after another. His lead reached 8-2. I bore down and got a few more points, and then it was 10-5. As the rallies and serves proceeded, I slowly crept up on him, and it was 13-11, but still his favor. He scored a point. 14-11. I scored a point. It was 14-12. He lost his serve when I returned a near-kill too far from him to return. Then I lost my serve when he dropped in a side-wall-front-grazer. He lost his next serve when I returned with a sidewall scraper. I lost my serve when he hit a killer return. It was still 14-12, and I refused to give up. We had traded 4 serves in a row without a score, but it was still “point-game” for him. He served a slow bullet to the left corner, I returned it. It was a hard one for him to return, and his shot was an easy one to my right hand off the rear wall. leapt towards the back, knowing just where I’m going to hit this one, and, and,…time stops.
Somehow my racquet gets in the way, maybe hitting the wall, and my pirouette that would turn me into position to catch the ball on the horizontal bounce spins out of control, and I take a head-first dive into the back wall. Meanwhile Dominic is at mid-court, waiting for the return, expecting a speed ball to come flying past him, but there is nothing but a couple of “splonks”, like meat hitting concrete. He turns around, and sees me lying on my back, peering at the ceiling. My goggles have flown off somewhere, my glasses have been ripped off. He looks down at my head with a worried expression. Blood is dripping from my eyebrow where the goggles tried to penetrate. I’m just beginning to feel the pain in my forehead and right knee which seem to have hit the wall simultaneously. Dominic says in his Aussie accent, “Don’t get up. Are you all right? What happened? Did you get knocked out? Wow, you’ve got a walnut-sized bump on your forehead. I don’t think you’re going to want to look in the mirror!”
Time began again. After feeling my forehead, and checking the signals from my other body parts, I decided I was sort of OK. Gradually I turned around from my seated position, putting all fours to the ground, keeping my right leg straight while standing up. Dominic looked seriously concerned, but I didn’t feel woozy or wobbly. I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t try to finish that game. I’ll give it to you.”
Fortunately it was a Saturday, so I could sit on the couch in the living room wearing a cold patch on my forehead ministered by nurse Beth. The walnut mostly receded by the next day, and by Monday I just had a weird yellowish blob below my hairline, just enough to scare little children and worry their mothers. On Thursday I played Patrick 3 games, and survived. But on Saturday morning, the neck aches and shoulder throbs were back. Dr. Ibo was consulted. Then my Aussie friend called, “Are you up for a game at 10?” he asked. My forebrain whispered, “No, No”, but my limbic brain shouted, “Yes, yes. I’ll be there. I’m leaving for the gym now.” The scratch must be itched, and the urge must be followed.
The competition: Katie & Patrick
