Tennis Meditation

     We all have those special things in our lives that we all take pleasure in doing.  I remember the my grandmother (that would be my mom's mom) would have her morning coffee and cigarette she would also play a game of solitaire.  That was her time to sit and ponder about the day that lay ahead.  It was her moment of being tranquil with herself.  My brother would go outside from sun up to what it seemed as sun down and shoot hoops in the driveway with the jambox shouting out the sounds of Beastie Boys or Run DMC.  My sister preferred things a bit quieter by painting ceramics while watching the latest soap opera on TV.  When I was in junior high my serene moment came from playing tennis out in the back yard.

     I couldn't wait until the spring air melted most of the winter snow away.  If the weather was nice enough I would shovel off the back patio to clear away the snow and remove the wet, soggy leaves that nestled in near the back of the garage from the previous autumn.  Our garage was attached to our light yellow house in Saginaw.  Behind the garage laid a sun-faded red and white checked board style patio.   Two wooden black birds were nailed to the siding forever posed in flight.  To me they were targets waiting to be wacked over and over with a tennis ball as I learned to control where I send the ball after I hit it with the racquet.  If my brother didn't take over the jambox for his music then I would sneak it outside for my tunes of Bell Biv Devoe or Milli Vanilli  It didn't matter much to me because my brother and I did have similar taste in music.  If the music was pumped up with loud bass we were happy. 

     Feeling the warm sun upon my face I would slowly unzip the black jacket of my racquet and remove my metal framed Wilson racquet.  My right hand would grip firmly around the handle as I took a few practice swings and felt the wind swish around it.  I would reach down and pick up one of the tennis balls that I brought outside with me.  Standing near the corner of the patio I would bounce the ball off the ground and tap it with my racquet.  The ball would fly up and smack against the side of the garage with a thunking sound.  The ball would bounce back onto the red and white patio squares and I would swing my arm around to hit the ball back to the side.  I would work on my swings of back hand and forward hand.  I  pretended that I was Steffi Graf, effortlessly going after the ball and hitting it back to the other side.   I had to be careful of where I sent the ball because there was a window towards the side of the garage that I didn't want to hit.  Occasionally the ball would tap into the window and I would hold my breath waiting for it to break but it never did. 

     There was something about the rhythm of the ball plunking the racquet, thunking on the siding and plopping on the ground that gave me a calming effect.   PLUNK!  THUNK!  PLOP!  PLUNK!  THUNK!  PLOP!  PLUNK!  THUNK!  PLOP!   Over and over the sounds sent me into deep thought.  My body would carry out the actions while my mind would start to analyze my frustrations, plot out the "what if's" in my life, or plan a story outline of something I wanted to write about.  Even with the music blaring in the background my thoughts came across loud and clear.  At that moment there was clarity in my life.

     My  mom knew how much I enjoyed tennis and set me up for lessons through the township.  I would walk over by Zaul Library to the tennis courts to take my lessons.  I would convince one of my friends, Keisha, to join me over at the courts to play one on one.  One time there were older teenage boys playing and they asked us to join them for playing doubles.  It was her and I against them.  I can't remember who won or lost but I can still recall giving each other a high five when they would miss the ball and we would get the score.  I even signed up on the White Pine Middle School intramural tennis team after school and did quite well with it.  

     Soon my attentions were drawn away from tennis as I got older.  We ended up moving to a new house and I didn't have my patio to practice on anymore.  I have taken my children to the tennis courts we have in town and gave them a chance to play.  They tried it but they didn't have the passion for it like I did.  There are days where I long to hold the racquet and have a good game of volleying the ball back and forth over the net, running up and down the court after the ball and feeling the force of the ball up against the racquet as I swing to hit it.  Maybe it is the carefree moments of swinging the racquet and hitting the ball up against the house that I miss.  Maybe.