~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Back in my hotel room, I looked over my purchases and was delighted all over again. There was no way I had enough room in my luggage to get all of this back home. The shoeboxes alone would take up half my suitcase. Maybe Darby had some extra room in his.
I packed my gym clothes and court shoes into a small folding bag that I had brought with me. I could rent a racquet and purchase balls at the club. As I looked around the room before leaving, my eye caught the pink tie one more time. I decided to try calling Mick again.
As it did before, my heart began to race as I punched his number. Negative thoughts poured into my mind. What if he didn’t want to see me anymore? What if he wouldn’t talk to me?
My call went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message.
I needed to shake this off. I knew if I hadn’t run off to Florida, this would have been resolved by now. I needed to keep the guilt and angst at bay until I could talk with him.
I ran down the hallway to the elevator and hoped the second cab I had called today was still waiting for me.
It was, and I hopped in.
When we pulled into the parking lot at the Bay Racquet Club, I couldn’t help noticing a green Focus in one of the parking spots. “For crying out loud,” I muttered under my breath.
“Something wrong?” the cab driver asked.
“No, it’s nothing,” I told him. I paid the fare and gave him a generous tip. I didn’t want him to think I had been muttering about him.
I walked into the lobby and was impressed by its size. The lobby in our club was small by comparison. Four courts, two on each side of the lobby, had glass back walls. Two of the glass courts had matches in progress. I could hear the echo of voices and balls being struck on the back courts.
A man wearing a club shirt and khaki slacks was working behind the desk. I walked up to the counter to speak with him and noticed his name tag. “Hi, Dale. I’m Susan Hunter,” I said. “I called about getting some court time this afternoon. I was told you could arrange a couple of matches for me.”
He nodded and looked over his appointment book. “Yep, you’re scheduled for court number three in twenty minutes. There’s no one on there now, so if you want to change and take some time to warm up, that would be ok. The ladies locker room is down the hallway to the right.”
“Thanks,” I told him with a smile. I started to walk toward the hallway but turned around and said, “I almost forgot. I need to rent a graphite racquet, and I’d like to buy a new can of balls.”
He nodded and said, “They’ll be here on the counter for you.”
I changed into a pair of dark brown cotton shorts with a matching top. My white court shoes had my trademark pink laces in them. I stopped at the front desk to pick up the racquet and balls. Dale gave me a quick once-over with an appreciative look, handed the equipment to me, and said, “Your first match is with Ron. He’s in the locker room changing. He’ll be out in a few minutes.”
I opened the door and stepped onto the court. I couldn’t help myself. I smiled a huge smile. A little over a year ago, before I ever hit my first ball, before I had ever swung my first racquet, I fell in love with just stepping onto the court. There was something almost overwhelming about the experience from the walled space with high ceilings to the echo of everything – a ball bounce, a sneaker squeak, a voice. The sounds were much more intense when the action was underway. The cool air-conditioned court would soon feel overheated.
The feeling never went away, and it was there today. It was even more exciting to be playing in a new venue with a mystery opponent. I bounced the ball a few times. A new ball would make the match more interesting as it had its most zip right out of the can. I bounced the ball again and hit it into the front wall. It came back toward me, bounced once, and I hit it again into the front wall.
I continued to hit easy shots into the front wall, returning as many as I could. I sent up a few high ceiling shots to warm up my upper body and then moved into the service box to hit several serves along both sides of the court. I was feeling warm and almost ready for Ron. I tossed the ball into the back wall and set up for a low forehand shot into the right-front corner. I did the same thing facing the left side and set up for a backhand into the left-front corner. The shot was perfect and rolled out for an ace. I smiled.
Ron opened the door and stepped in. I almost gasped. Whoever set my match, set it with a Neanderthal. This guy was probably six three and nearly three hundred pounds. And the hair! It was sticking out from everywhere – literally.
I walked over to shake his hand. “Hi, Ron. I’m Susan. Thanks for agreeing to play with me. Do you want to trade shots to see who serves first?”
It was customary for both players to hit a simple shot from the back of the court to the front wall and have it bounce as close as possible to the short line of the service box. Whoever was closest to the line served first.
“No. You’re a girl. You can serve first,” he said.
Oh my gosh! This guy really was a Neanderthal. I had to bite my tongue to keep from telling him what I thought about his comment - and that he needed a good waxing.
We moved into position. I wanted to get a feel for how he played, so I sent the first serve easy into his forehand. He hit it hard and blasted it low into the front right corner. I couldn’t return it, and the serve turned over to him. It was a good shot, and I thought this might be a good game.
I easily returned his serve and positioned myself in the center of the court. He ran to the ball on the right side, swung at it with all his might, and promptly drilled it into my right calf. The pain was almost unbearable.
Racquetballs can travel at speeds in excess of one hundred miles per hour when they’re returned, and I’m pretty sure this big galoot put everything he had into that shot. I knew it was going to leave an ugly red-purple-blue splotch that would spread out like a spider. I walked around for a few moments and waited for the pain to subside.
“Hey, you hindered my shot,” whined the Neanderthal.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I snapped. I put my hands on my hips and stared him down, or up as it were. “I was in the middle of the court, and I only have to give you a straight lane to the front wall.”
He ignored me and moved to take his position in the service box. He called out the score, “One to nothin’.”
I positioned myself for his serve. He hit the ball with all of his might into the front wall. The ball didn’t make it past the service box. He had one more chance to get it to me before losing his serve. Once again, he hit the ball with everything he could muster. The ball came back, wrapped around the left corner, and came off the back wall. I had already run to that side of the court and set my position. I returned it low into the front wall. He couldn’t reach it in time before it bounced and went past him.
There was no way I wanted to play this guy. He obviously wasn’t a skilled player and wanted nothing more than to power the ball around the court. He was dangerous.
By now, a group of onlookers had gathered to watch. Perceived showoff or not, I was going to get this over with – quick.
I took my spot in the service box. My next two serves were aces into the back corners. The score – two to one. I sent high lob serves into each of the back corners. Two more points for me. Neanderthal man did manage to return a couple of serves, and we were able to play, but I knew not to get in front of him and had to run around him, taking most of my shots off the back wall. It didn’t take too long, and the game was over fifteen to one. I was wearing his one and only point on my leg.
“Ok,” he said. “Let’s go again.”
“Not today, Ron,” I said. There was no way I was going to stay in a confined space with him. “I have another game coming up.” I shook his hand.
Surprisingly, he opened the door for me. Go figure, there was a gentleman in there somewhere.
“You play pretty good for a girl,” he said.
Never mind.
&nbs
p; The group of people who had been watching the match gave a round of applause when we stepped out of the court. I smiled and looked down. I was sure I was blushing. An attractive, petite girl with red hair asked, “How did you ever get a backhand like that?”
It was the question I was asked the most. “I have a fabulous coach,” I told her. “And it’s really not that hard. There’s a rhythm and timing to the movement.” I went through the motions and showed her. “Practice it. It feels awkward at first, but once you have it, your backhand will be easier than your forehand.”
“Thanks,” she said. “That makes sense. I’ll definitely work on it.”
I walked up to the desk to talk to the clerk again. “Dale, who set that game up for me?” I couldn’t completely hide my irritation. “That was painful in more ways than one.”
He winced and said, “I saw. I’m really sorry.”
“Do you have any class A or B players who would be willing to play a game?” I asked. There were still a lot of men who wouldn’t play with a woman for fear of losing, so it wasn’t always easy to get a match, especially with people who didn’t know you.
I had been playing for just over a year now, so I was no longer eligible to be a novice. With Husky’s help, I had moved quickly past class C, and was playing class B in league and at tournaments. I hoped to be playing class A before the end of the year.
“Let me get Frank for you,” Dale said. “He’s one of our better players, and you should have a good match with him.”
An hour later, Frank and I were stepping off the court. The group watching us had swelled to a small crowd, and there was applause for both of us. Frank won the first game by two points, I took the second game by one, and Frank won the third game by one. We both played hard, smart, and had a great workout.
“You’re going to be a pro someday, aren’t you?” Frank asked with a big smile.
“I never thought about it,” I said. “I don’t think so. I just want to be as good as I can right now.” I picked up my can of balls and my towel. “I’m signed up for our state tournament in Ohio this fall. It’s my first time to play at that level, and I want to play as many good people as I can before I get there.”
“I’m sure you’ll do great,” he assured me. “That’s some impressive backhand you’ve got there. I don’t think I would have won any games at all if I hadn’t spotted your weak spot. You do know it’s ceiling shots, right?”
“I know,” I said with dismay. “I don’t know why they twist me up so much. When I do get my racquet on them, my returned shot isn’t placed very well. I have a coach who’s working with me, so I’ll eventually get them figured out.” I took a quick glance at my calf. The ugly bruise was already starting to show.
“I saw what happened with Ron,” he said, shaking his head. “That was unfortunate. There aren’t too many people who will get on a court with him.”
Swell. Now he tells me.
“Thanks for the workout,” he continued. “I have to get going.”
“I do, too. Thanks for being willing to play with a girl,” I told him with a smile.
He winked at me.
I took a quick shower and changed clothes before calling a cab for a ride back to the hotel. After turning in the rented racquet and paying my bill, I sat down with a banana smoothie to wait for my ride. I was tired, but I felt exhilarated.
I remembered there had been a green Focus in the parking lot when I arrived. I looked around at the patrons in the lobby, but no one even remotely resembled Skinny Guy.
My taxi pulled up in front of the doors. I grabbed my bag and left the club feeling completely satisfied with the hard workout.