My son Patrick’s got a black belt in karate, he thinks nothing of
snowboarding all day on the slopes, goes mountain biking for days on
hills I’d never consider biking up or down myself. But he had never
learned how to play racquetball, and I had a little experience in the
game.

Anyway, two years ago when he was a senior at UMd (fall of 2001), I
taught Patrick how to play racquetball, and we’ve been playing once a week
ever since. The first year, we were playing with university racquets,
all randomly junky, squishy and small. But we didn’t know any better.
Then one day, in the fall of 2002 (I remember it well) for no apparent
reason, the gym started to supply Titanium racquets, and (wow!) our games
suddenly improved–mine much more than Patrick’s, since his speed and
strength didn’t need any supplements. With the new racquets I found I
was beating Patrick in every game. Before that I was just barely winning
more than losing.

So I went out and bought a Titanium racquet for myself. And that has
put a serious monkey on my back. Not a week goes by when I think to
myself, “Can this run come to an end? Will the string be broken this
week?” Well, the string in 2002 was, technically speaking, broken,
but only twice, one time we were running out of court time, and a game
had to be stopped in a 9-9 tie. Another time I didn’t have my
sneakers with me and had to play in regular street shoes. The score
was 15-13, Patrick’s favor.

I recall after one sweaty match last spring, we were heading down to
the showers, and this gorgeous black coed came up to Patrick and said
“Hi!” to him. She gave him a hug, and Patrick introduced me to her.
She leaned over and gave me a hug, too. (I’ll tell you, it was a good
thing we ran into her after the match and not before it, or I wouldn’t
have been able to hit the ball.) So she asks, looking at our
racquets, “You’ve been playing racquetball?” And Patrick says, “Yeah,
he always beats me.” I say, “Well, not all the time.” And she just
beams a beautiful smile at me. Made my day, I’ll tell you.

This run of wins continued through Patrick’s graduation last June, and
I thought that the pressure would be off. Sad that we wouldn’t have
regular games, but, as I said, the pressure would be off. But
no. Patrick decided to sign up at the gym as an alum, and we would
continue our weekly matches. Everyone I’ve spoken to about this says
that I can’t expect to continue winning forever. Well, of course not.
One or the other of us has to die sometime. Even with my 40 years on
him, the way Patrick snowboards and bikes, it could be him first.

I think the reason Patrick doesn’t win is that he doesn’t warm up
before playing. He meets me at the court, and I’ve just finished
doing 20 slow minutes on one of the gym’s elliptical trainers, so I’m all
warm and relaxed, and he’s all tense and cold. Last week’s match was
fairly typical. I started off beating him 15-1, and then in the
second game it was 15-7. By the 3rd game he was warmed up and ready
to go, so I really had to focus on treachery.

The game was close right from the start. He got the first 2 points. So
it was 2-0, his serve. I returned it with the kind of shot I often
wake up in the morning thinking about. (Yes, Miss Manners, I dream
about racquetball. I admit it.) A solid “whack!” one foot above the
floor and one foot in from the corner, not a true “kill” (which is 1-2
inches above the floor), but unreturnable because as it returns from
the front wall, it grazes the side wall too low and too close to hit.
Naturally, Patrick dove for it, but no luck, his reach was not enough.
From then on, it was my usual tactics: never repeat the same serve
twice. Hit a fast serve into the left rear corner, then a fast z-shot
to the right. (A z-shot serve goes close into the corner, hits the
side wall close to the diagonally opposite rear corner, and gains so
much spin that it moves off almost parallel to the back wall.) A
z-shot to the left, then another fast grazer along the left wall.
Then a change-up (which looks like it’s going to be fast, but is
slower, throwing the returnee into a swinging fit). So I was able to
stay ahead on serves.

Now it was 12-11 my favor. I was getting tired. Patrick was just getting
warmed up. His serve. He hit it to my weak backhand, and I used my
delaying tactic–hit it off the ceiling. The ball arched way up,
slowly fell to the back wall, requiring Patrick to back hand it off
the back wall (he’s good at that). But the angle of descent means his
return was also off the ceiling. And so was my return. That went on a
few times, each time the slow descent of the ball permitting me to
regain my breath and walk (not run) to the center of the court.
Finally, I sneaked a return ball behind Patrick’s back as he moved
the wrong way. That, back in the good old days of 2001, used to work
at least 90% of the time, but now it works only if my timing is right,
and he can’t whip around quite fast enough. A few more sneaky moves
and I won 15-14. Hoo! That was close. But time’s up.

So I go for the Motrin and the hot shower on my tendinitis-prone
shoulders, while Patrick speeds off on his mountain bike at full
tilt across the campus. No motrin or hot showers for him.

My questions for you, Miss Manners: Is there a polite way to ask
Patrick if he is toying with me? Is it fair of him to put all this
pressure on me?

Yours sincerely,

Rickety Rackity Ed