“Back pedal, assume trophy position, hit through the ball, and aim for the orange cone.”

I’m one of three “Adult Tennis Players” on the court with a local club’s tennis pro moonlighting during the summer as an instructor for the town‘s recreational and activity programs. The governing outfit is actually called “Simsbury Culture, Parks, and Recreation”, and I’m the lone septuagenarian returning to tennis after having been sidelined (In tennis, would the term be “discourted”?) by the ravages of time and noncompliant vertebrae. I can aim for the orange cone; anybody can aim at objects. The actions leading to delivery of a tennis ball to the cone, however, appear now to be in the realm of:

“No-problem-doing-any-of-this-five-years-ago-but-not-happening-tonight”

Let’s start with backpedaling. The gurus at Exercise.com remind me that backpedaling is a simple maneuver calling upon my quads, glutes, hamstrings, and calves. Their instructions are terse -”Keep your hips low at about ¼ of a squat position, take small steps backward continuously, and continue for the desired time or distance.” 

We could start with the  mobile ¼ squat; not happening. The thing about assuming the demi-squat is that for some period of time, perhaps only a few seconds, my lumpencorpse is to suspend itself between standing on a flat surface and sitting without a chair while taking short steps backward and continuously. I can still do crossword puzzles and tie my shoes, but something happened to my balance when my left side went numb. Simply walking backwards has become an issue; I seem to lose track of myself in space.

The process of walking, forward or backward, would be made more ungainly if I were to look straight up as I attempt to move. Down is ok, but up is the wake-up call for vertigo. Is there any posture that would ask me to shuffle backwards while looking straight up?

The trophy position replicates the figure standing atop the participation trophy, head up, racquet back, arm extended to the sky. The figure is also bent at the waist, curving against gravity and nature. 

That’s not happening either, but the instructor hits a wobbling lob falling in a perfect arc, falling at terminal velocity as it leaves his side of the court and enters mine. I’ve been instructed to get trophied, use my non-racquet hand as a guide, reach up, and drive this rapidly dropping object back at the instructor before it hits the ground. 

So, to summarize: Can’t squat, back pedal, or assume the position. I let the ball bounce and poke it back across the net in a pathetic invitation to have it fed back to me before I have brought my racquet back to protect myself.

I go to the back of the line, bounce somewhat , and imperfectly repeat until the drill is finished, but the tang of uncertain memory intrudes. I believe I have known the satisfaction of perfectly timing a dropping lob, raising fist and racquet to the skies, delivering a eviscerating return to an opponent no longer willing to call me friend. I have back pedaled and skidded. In the summer of 1963, my touch with a loosely strung Jack Kramer racquet, a wood racquet weighing a hefty 13.3 ounces, was artful. I could run all day and swim a mile to cool off. Without a second thought I ate burgers and fries sodden with animal grease, snuck cigarettes when I could, and slept until noon.

All of which is to explain why I signed up for the next lesson and why I have a bag of tennis balls in the back of my car. 

I can’t do what I once did easily. I can’t even do what I once did with considerable effort. When injured, I visited an osteopath and a physical therapist who manipulated me back into mobility, but they haven’t helped me remember the name of that movie, that actor, that book, that place we went that time, whenever. My brother and I comfort each other as we keep misplacing nouns. Why verbs, adjectives, and adverbs are within reach I cannot say, but I do apologize to those who need to know where the grocery store is and only get “Near the …. Across from …. That pretty place …. Smells like ink.” 

I can sense the frustration my fumbling brings to conversations; I’m trying to have nouns handy before I speak. Then there’s tennis; the poor sap attempting to move me around a tennis court doesn’t shake his head and mumble under his breath, but I do feel obliged to get up, stretch as much as I can, shuffle backwards and try to assume the trophy position.

I won’t look like …. That guy …. Won at that place …. Short hair …. Whatever ….