Sorauren Park tennis courts // “Two rules,” Jeff says, as I do a few lunges and behind-the-back arm stretches. It is almost seven thirty, and wispy clouds hang in a cobalt sky. “No ‘sorry’. And, no making a big deal when you mess up. You’re going to do that a lot. You’re learning. It’s fine.” I solemnly nod.
It’s the first time we play and we do so for over two hours, until we’re dripping in sweat and I am giddy from the endorphins, and a few decent rallies. Jeff stumbled into tennis at a sports camp as an eight-year-old and has a lifetime of robust athleticism. I’m slightly better than he thinks I’m going to be, meaning, my racket is coming into contact with the ball. This particular Wilson beginner’s racket has lived in my father’s garage from the time I attended tennis camp when I was eleven, twenty-three years ago. The red of the tape around the grip bleeds onto my hand, guilty of a sport-related crime.
We eat tacos afterwards, and Jeff says, “This might be our best date yet.”
I can barely walk the next day. I’m in decent shape, although had no idea that my abdominal muscles were involved in what we did yesterday.
I’m hooked. I desperately need to learn the basics. To avoid injury, and to ensure that there’s enough improvement to warrant Jeff’s continued tutelage.
The word "tennis" comes from the French tenez meaning "hold" or "take heed," likely called before a player served. It is reported to have originated in France in the 11th century as a sort of handball played on an indoor court with a ball, and then in the early 1500’s the racquet was introduced. The sport continued its progression in England in the mid-19th century when it was played on the lawns of the upper classes. Wimbledon was established in 1887, and the game was solidified to basically what it remains to be today. Tennis arrived in Canada soon after its popularity rose in England, and the Toronto Lawn Tennis Club was founded in 1875.
There are some 202 tennis courts in Toronto, some public and maintained by the city, and some private clubs. The public courts skirt the sports’ classist undertones, and appeal to a wide range of people varying in skill. On any given balmy Sunday morning or Thursday after 5 p.m., the courts that we frequent are packed, with wait times up to an hour.
There are two clubs within walking distance of my apartment - Howard Park Tennis Club and The Boulevard Club. The former has a waitlist of 800 that has been paused until its numbers dwindle. “A lifetime membership at The Boulevard Club starts at $25,000 (plus taxes)” the latter’s website reads, “And monthly dues start at $249.” Public courts it is.
“Do you play tennis?” I had asked Jeff in one of our early text exchanges.
“I do!” He responded.
“I’m awful at tennis,” I said.
“I figured.” He re-joined. “Most writers are.” (I remember laughing at that, and thinking something about it seemed correct although I wasn’t quite sure what.)
I have the benefit of being able to search “tennis” in our WhatsApp chat and chronicle our references.
July 7, 2020, J: “My favourite moment is when it is just darkening, as it is right now, and I’m on the court, and the lights go on. I’ve lost a point. I walk back and there’s no solemnity to it... I look up and there’s a moon. This environment that has no context outside itself. This warm weather, this fat moon that looks like the ball that I’m holding. I walk back and realize that maybe I made an error, maybe I’m going to be defeated, but I’m here. I have this opportunity.”
S: “I really want to play with you, but it’s not gonna happen for a while because I don’t want you to see how truly bad I am. I just want to impress you right now!”
J: “Initial shyness will give way to even more of my affections. And it’s also just idle fun. You would eventually start to stop apologizing. That Sisyphean moment where you collect the ball, and get the feeling of: “I’m here trying this new thing! With this new guy! I’m not the best yet, but I’m getting better every second.”
S: “I am completely cringing just thinking about it, but yes: I’d like to play with you 😍.”
J: “Great! It’s cute too, when you don’t really understand the game yet, and there’s laughter and we’re like, rehearsing something… Some futurity that might happen down the road… Like, of it being a decent game.”
High Park Tennis Courts // It’s 1:32pm and hot. There’s a whole scene here: men in their fifties sit on benches just outside the courts transitioning Gatorade to Labatt Blue as the despotic sun moves West. They occasionally join the cast of players who cycle on and off the courts: taking breaks, chatting, playing Ave Maria and Ludacris from tinny cellphone speakers. One player makes a “hy-ah-mah” sound every time they hit the ball. Another brings a lettuce plant in a bicycle trailer, complete with blue tarp and a small watering can.
We are on Court One. Court Two and Three are occupied. I reach into the back of my grey bike shorts and pull out one of two tennis balls. People are watching. Jeff has the rest in his pockets, totalling nine. “You’ve really gotta get some proper shorts,” he calls. I roll my eyes. He winks.
We’ve been playing for a week now, and almost every day. My left forearm aches from enthusiastically over gripping the racket, and I’m not sure what’s up with my neck. But gosh; I love tennis.
I’m thirty-six years old and seriously getting into a sport for the first time in my life. Yes, sure, it’s still early. But this love is real. Empowered despite my near-constant failure, I bounce the ball and hit it over the net. Phewf. Jeff rallies it back, forehand. His shot sails just over, a perfect shape. I adjust the grip on my new purple Head racket, purchased at Canadian Tire for $52. I run towards the ball, left hand outstretched (incorrect), swing, and miss.
I take a breath.
I return to somewhere in “No Man’s Land” (between the Service Line and the Baseline) and drop the ball to hit it over. I don’t get it anywhere close to Jeff, and he doesn’t run for it. I wince. He hits a ball right to me. I forehand it back, and it skyrockets due to my lack of follow-through. Jeff returns it with power, forehand. I follow-through on my return this time, and it doesn’t quite soar just over the net, but it’s closer. “Nice!” Jeff calls, returning it. We are officially rallying. My brow furrowed, I go in for a mix between an ill-formed back hand and a volleyball spike and the ball goes directly into the net.
I chant the lines I’ve glommed onto as imperative to my improvement:
Get back! (Centre mark.) Balls of the feet! (Ready to hustle.) Follow through! (A proper forehand shot almost resembles a golf swing, with the hand holding the racquet ending up over the opposite shoulder.)
Shockingly, not apologizing is coming easier than I thought it might. I do however, bite my tongue frequently when I want to justify my bad form. You’re learning, I say to myself. “Follow through!” Jeff calls, and I drop a ball and hit it across the net.
This is part 1 of 40 Love. Stay tuned for Part 2, published in next month’s newsletter.
May’s five things
Listening: Expectant is a six-part audio series by my friend Pippa Johnstone that “muddies fiction and non-fiction as a woman faces the prospect of becoming a parent during the climate crisis.” I eagerly await episodes, and listen with heart racing and ears tuned.
Watching: Brother, a film by Clement Virgo, adapted from David Chariandy’s award-winning novel about two brothers coming of age in 1990s Scarborough.
Making: This miso honey sauce (and if you don’t eat fish, the sauce is delicious on tofu, greens and sweet potatoes).
Offering: Bloom: 21 days of timed writing practice, a new program I’m facilitating where a community of writers move our pens, hearts and imaginations for 21 consecutive days. This summer’s program is full, but I intend to run it again so if you are interested in participating please let me know in the comments and I will add you to my mailing list.
Loving: Tending Joy and Practicing Delight: Ross Gay on On Being.
Thank you for reading, and for being here. If you are called, please pass on five things to a pal or tennis buddy! If you share a screenshot on Instagram, don’t forget to tag me @sasharsw. 🎾
"no sorries in tennis" is what joe and i say to each other in all life matters. a practice indeed. beautiful article, sash. xx