Staying In the Game

I looked in the mirror this morning and saw my father. He left for his last review at the military parade ground in the sky over twenty years ago, so I was startled. But there he was, bald head, jowly, ear hairs and all. It is his fault that I am height-challenged. On the other hand, with my mother’s assistance, he left genes that are beneficial, for which I am grateful. Eight decades along, I play tennis, have my original teeth, and can dress myself. The tennis part requires athletic support devices for my limbs and other bits. This is true for My Life’s Editor as well. She is a snappy lady tennis player of a certain age.

We decided to rummage in our tennis bags and clothes drawers to centralize our collection of athletic support aids. We pulled out knee braces, elbow braces, wrist braces, finger splints, back braces, and thermal warming pads (shoulder and back). There were elastic band devices that could not be identified. Likely herself had browsed up an article on “Best Five Devices for Limb Support for Seniors” and ordered all five on Amazon.

One item reminded me of a headdress worn by the Shinto priests I had seen in Japan at a sumo match. They led the wrestlers out into the ring, uttering incantations, before the big guys threw down salt, bowed to each other, and rumbled. But maybe I am conflating it with the look of the ringside snack at the match – dried squid on a stick.

We have a vibrating massage gun like the one Major League Baseball players use in the dugout during the game. A player applies it to his aggrieved member while he sits in the dugout, manipulating snuff under his lip, and spitting. We do not spit at the breakfast table, but we do use the massage gun. Herself stands behind me and applies it to my shoulders. I reciprocate by rubbing her feet when we watch TV.

The best tennis player in our apartment has a cool, high-tech, titanium knee brace. It is molten lava colored like her car, with sparkly flecks. Football guards and tackles, and skiers like Lindsey Vonn or Mikaela Shiffrin wear them. Younger lady players seeing her strap on the brace think “Aha, gimpy old lady.” They think so at their own risk.

On weekday mornings at the Racquet Club, the old guys play. They have retired, been given a watch or a framed plaque, and sent on their way from their job at Acme Bolt and Screw. Since this is Florida, most came here from somewhere else. The west coast of Florida is awash in Midwesterners – accommodating, respectful folks. This accounts for all the “Pardon me”s and “Oh no, you first”s at a Publix checkout in St. Petersburg. In Boca Raton, pensioners are stiff-armed at the BOGO bin.

On a recent Wednesday morning, I surveyed my court and the one next to me. In my doubles game, there were two knee braces, a wrist wrap, and an elbow wrap. Next door there was a back brace. Add in flapping bandages from recent dermatological engagements and you have Imhotep the Mummy clumping along, dragging strips of gauze, hand outstretched, waving a tennis racquet. Imhotep, however, did not need cortisone shots or have hip or knee replacements to go with the bandages and braces. After the game ended, we gathered at courtside to shuck off our sweaty armament, wrestling them off limbs that refused to bend properly, with groans of “Oofs” and “Ughs”s.

COVID and the working-from-home culture have brought in the occasional young whippersnapper (under 70) to our weekday games. This has been unsettling. We are leery of people who run for drop shots and clamor to get in a third set before lunch. We saunter. A ball that rolls into a corner of the court stays there until it absolutely must be fetched. We like to sit a bit during changeovers and palaver about the weather and Florida Gator prospects in the fall.

Something must be done about knees, hips, and shoulders. Our original equipment is not trustworthy for playing tennis. Scientists tell us that we would be better off if we went about on all fours. This would make overhead smashes extremely tricky but expand the market for knee and elbow pads.

Orthopedic surgeons are happy with the way things are. They see no reason to impede the flow of Medicare lucre supporting their boat payments or their second home in North Carolina. At our club certain knee specialists are spoken of reverently and have a fan base of folks with scarred kneecaps offering up tales of renewal and redemption. Conversations that involve terms like the cruciate ligament and the medial meniscus invoke knowledgeable nods. “He fixed my lateral meniscus, and I was playing in one day!”

Every tennis club should have a shrine at the entrance to two English gentlemen: Stewart Adams and John Nicholson. Forget landing on the moon, the cell phone, and the imposition of the pitch clock in Major League Baseball. The most important development of our times is their introduction in 1961 of Vitamin I. The sine qua non of athletic aids is saved for last.