Mike,

I was jogging steadily on the treadmill at the gym where Dom and I play racquetball, when Dom tapped me on the shoulder. “I’m going into the court to warm up”. Our court time wasn’t for 5 minutes, but Dom likes to push the
envelope. I said, “OK, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

When I came into the court, Dom was stuffing his bad right hand into a glove. Watching him curiously, I stuffed a big long sponge under my sweat shirt as protection for my clobbered left shoulder, I asked Dom if the glove helped him hold onto the racquet. “Yeah, a little bit. Without it, the racquet almost blows out of my hand on a swing.” He wiggled his damaged pinkie finger, showing its limited range of motion.

We did the usual bounce-to-the-line for serve, and I won. Dom returned my serves to his back hand a little weakly, and I scored a few points, but I lost the serve when I tested his forehand. From then on, throughout the match, I returned to his backhand whenever possible and won that game handily, 15-8.

Before making his serve for the next game, Dom took the racquet with his left hand, and shook out his right. I couldn’t help noticing a grimace. Dom’s game fell apart in the first few minutes. I was up 9-0 and wondering what had happened to my old partner. So I relaxed a bit (always a mistake). Dom surged back and tied the game up 10-10. That got my attention, and I started exploiting his weakened backhand at the left rear corner. At the end of that game (15-10), Dom asked for a rest. Sitting outside next to the drinking fountains, Dom described the history of his hand in great detail.

After the rest, we hit the court again. Except for the first 3 points in one game, Dom never came close in the final three. There were a few of his trademark double-z-sidewall-frontwall-graze shots, but I had learned to play mid-court and returned most of them, much to his chagrin. Dom’s accuracy was still good, but the zip had been lost from his drives. Finals: 15-8, 15-3, 15-6.

At one point in the last game, Dom reached high overhead near the back wall, and missed the ball. Afterwards he said, “I just remembered how I jammed that finger and broke it. I was reaching back over my head next to the rear wall, just like that, and smashed my hand hard.” Apparently he had repressed the memory of the incident until that moment.

As we walked out after our sweaty hour, Dom showed how red that barely healed pinkie was. I said to him, “I sure hope you haven’t damaged it more.” Dom insouciantly responded,”No worries. It’ll get better. Let’s play again next week. We’ve got to get in as many games as we can before you leave!”

–rakkity