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 ...