Net Dreams

It was probably due to a conversation I'd had earlier yesterday in the men's locker room out at the health club. As I was dressing to head out to the Suffering Area (exercise room), I was talking with a guy at a nearby locker--a guy I see a lot; we talk; we don't know each other's name; that's another story. He's a runner and likes to hit the trails outside. I told him I used to run a lot (4-6 miles/day), but now ... knee, ankles, dotage (I did not mention that one).

So ... later ... asleep last night, I have a tennis dream.

I've written here before about my tennis life (such as it was): began to play in boyhood, played on the Hiram College tennis team (1963-66; we sucked, so I fit right in), worked as a tennis instructor at a couple of boys' camps in the Adirondacks (near Lake George), coached for a couple of years at Western Reserve Academy (around 1980), joined the Western Reserve Racquet Club in Aurora, where I played Early Bird for many years before knee--shoulder--ankles--etc. told me It's Time to Quit.

Hiram College tennis team, 1966
(I'm 3rd from the right, front row)

Oh, and in 1969? My first date with Joyce Coyne was in mid-July, playing tennis down in Firestone Park, near her home. I fooled her. She married me.

I haven't touched a racket in years--don't even own one now.

So ... last night's dream ...

I am on some courts I don't recognize playing a person I knew in the dream but cannot remember now. I have not played in a while. For some reason I'm using a plastic racket--a kid's toy of some kind--plastic strings, etc. I quickly break two of them. Then make a move to get my old Dunlop (wooden frame) that I used Back in the Day.

Dunlop-armed, I return to the court, which has somehow shrunk to Lilliputian size (well, not quite that small) and try to tell my opponent that it's pointless to play. He wonders why.

I wake up.

Okay, Freudians, have your fun ...