Racquetball Ninja
Then
I flew off the left wall, gingerly spun to the floor like a young
ballerina trained in action movie special effects and managed to
barely, albeit confidently, make a side ricochet shot to the left front
corner. He returned it. Low and fast the ball traveled near
bullet-train speeds straight to the back wall wherein I raced and then
caught up with the blur of blue, nailed it back to the previous corner
of choice and avoided an ugly meeting with the glass by doing a kind of
swimmer’s flip turn pushing off the glass with my feet and
landing with the agility of a ninja in an ‘80s movie. The faces
of the crowd went from dropped jaws to the looks of mystical awakenings
watching my performance and then my dad’s easy, far from
flamboyant return hit and subsequent win in a match of racquetball.
The origins started around the time of those
movies. I remember my friends and I wanting to be Ninjas when we grew
up. Not cowboys or firemen, or portfolio managers or accounts
receivable reps; but Ninjas cloaked in elegant cloth and weaponry
silently stalking our prey in either good or bad guy modes of stealth.
In the early ‘80s racquetball was ‘in’ as the
preeminent sport of the yuppie crowd. I imagine guys coming from the
office, stowing their leather briefcases in lockers, snapping on white
headbands and getting a quick round in before going home to woo the
‘Misses’. I factually remember my dad taking me downtown to
the DAC (Denver Athletic Club) on weekends to watch him play
racquetball with his friends and then see people run in circles above a
basketball court when I got bored. It was the time of Reaganomics and
Soviets, Flashdance and Old Spice. 1983 was the year I finished
kindergarten and started swimming competitively. It was also the year
that my dad was the same age as I am now; 31.
In a kind of surface cultural way,’83
was probably the last year in which the ‘70s overlapped the new
decade. Oil made a comeback, punk evolved into new-wave music and
fashion trends, the détente of the ‘70s between the rival
superpowers ended with a new arms race. Sounds kooky, but the DAC was
to me a microcosm of the times. Bushy sideburns gave way to short spiky
hair, dark wood paneling fell out in favor of wallpaper, racquets went
from wood to graphite and fiberglass, carpet was shag and then berber.
Likewise, my ambition to become a professional ninja metastasized
during this age and I saw this weird, fun looking sport of beating the
hell out of a blue rubber ball as the perfect introduction to ninjitsu.
Only problem; I didn’t tell anyone.
Part of my personality involves not being
vocal about things I want. So for example; I would expect my parents to
know, and then politely ask me if I wanted to try racquetball or to
just know that I wanted a dog really bad. Of course they didn’t
being that my telepathy wasn’t as developed as it should have
been back then, because part of the unspoken ninja code is secrecy; so
I couldn’t just come out and say it because ninjas don’t
speak too much and they probably don’t covet things like dogs and
toys and stuff. A bit of a bind yes, but I saw it as my first real test
of ninja-ness. Anyway, it didn’t work and I wound up doing
swimming instead on the account of some of my neighborhood friends
doing it and my parents either misreading the telepathy or thinking
that it would be good for me as a communal sport to do with friends
– silly I know. Whatever the reason, racquetball didn’t
happen for me and it fell by the wayside as did other things like
football and karate. And later on my telepathy failed me more, and more
often when I had crushes on girls that didn’t seem to notice my
telepathic longing for them, and as a result never introduced
themselves to me, or they did but then expected me to make the next
move when clearly the telepathy stated that they needed to make the
leap or just out and out fawn over me. What can I say? Either the full
messages weren’t received, even though I bombarded parties of
interest with my telepathic mind powers, or I wasn’t cut out to
be a true ninjitsu master; or the whole ninja thing was total bullshit.
For my
serve, I threw him off by slicing the ball edge on so it approached him
like a corkscrew – or a curveball on another planet with
gravitational instabilities. The ball landed hitting the lacquered
floor with such fierce english that it bounced back toward me up front,
which I then dodged by jumping straight up and clinging to the ceiling
awaiting his miss. But he didn’t miss. Diving for the ball, he
hit it just hard enough to lob, barely making it to the wall of play.
“Lucky!” So I then pushed off the ceiling and landed like a
cat to return the play. And like a laser, I hit the ball hard –
so hard in fact that its shape changed to resemble a pancake cutting
through the air at supersonic speeds. Somehow he got to it, and to his
credit; repelled my force by reflecting the laser pancake back at me. I
merged with the floor to escape and his ball hit the ground costing him
a win. My victory, on the account of his default. Mine.
So I swam for the next 8 years, until I was 14
and started high school. From day one I had my suspicions that this
sport would not help with my training because I never saw or heard
about ninjas swimming – but if I wanted to be a Navy SEAL or some
kind of commando, it would then be valid. That was not the case; and in
all honesty, I was a pretty average swimmer. The best I ever
accomplished was taking 4th place in the state All-Star meet in the 100
meter backstroke, and that about killed me. I remember the
disappointment of my family and coaches when as a high school freshman,
I made the grave decision to stop swimming. At the time everyone except
me was thinking scholarship, even though I had informed them via
telepathy that there is no college of ninjitsu and that the ancient
masters would balk if they knew that I had wasted my time on such a
frivolous endeavor. So my answer to their downtrodden faces was that I
had swallowed enough chlorine water to kill any kind of desire to
continue.
After I broke free of the swimming debacle, I
decided to fulfill my childhood desire and join the school’s
football team. But after a full season of abuse and injuries, I
realized that (1) football was not as fun as I thought and (2) getting
hit in this sport is not like it looks on TV, but more akin to walking
out into a busy intersection full of cars and elephants; and for the
record, pads don’t help. To communicate this feeling even more, I
would suggest running as fast as you can into any kind of solid wall. I
sucked into extreme levels at football because at the first moment of
impact in a game, I was transformed into a human piñata; my
blood spilling onto the field, tainting what little confidence I had,
and of course the sharks of the opposing team knew it and from then on
they were chasing my fear. Should’ve known that this most
inelegant sport of sports would not accelerate my aspirations any more
than NASCAR would.
One sport I am pretty good at is skiing.
Contrary to other misguided attempts, this sport is constructive to an
apprentice ninja and it’s fun as hell – only now am I
seeing the connection of “fun” to my calling (“Wow,
having fun isn’t just a waste of time but really important to
mental health!”). I know; you don’t have to say it, but it
came to me almost as an epiphany all these years later – fun and
play are vital to existence. Anyway, I started skiing around the same
time as the swim team thing, but according to my adult brain, skiing
didn’t take as much of a hold as swimming because of the vast
differences in proximity to the neighborhood pool (.5 hours on foot)
and mountain resorts (1.5 hours average drive time); and whereas the
swim league was more or less free, the ski resorts seemed to have a
monetary filtering process that cunningly eliminated people from middle
to lower class backgrounds to enjoy the skiing experience – and
this is 25 years ago, nowadays the rise in lift ticket prices,
equipment, parking, gas, food, etc., could actually rival the inflation
rate of war torn Germany after WWI. So my child brain was wondering,
“why swim when skiing is funner?” Again, the telepathy just
wasn’t there yet, but gradually around ’88 the messages
started to come through because I found myself enrolled in a ski club
that went skiing every weekend of the season. And this was a godsend
because I got to ski with my friends every Saturday without parental
supervision; or any other forms of supervision because I conveniently
lied to my elders about taking lessons all day when in actuality, I was
jumping off death defying cliffs, recklessly speeding down slopes,
eating candy for lunch, skiing in closed and out of bounds areas, and
cussing like Huck Finn. Yes, skiing was good to me and good for me as
it taught me balance, speed, flight, dexterity, endurance. But at the
risk of being too solipsistic, I did have my follies, including; 2
concussions, both thumbs jammed, a hyper extended and sprained knee, a
black eye, a torn nail off of the right big toe, both wrists sprained,
a case of whiplash, a 2nd degree sunburn, various cases of minor
frostbite, cuts, scrapes, bruises, and most recently in ’07, a
torn co-lateral ligament in my left hand that’s known on the
mountain as, ‘Skier’s Thumb’, also the sprained knee
and 1 of the concussions required me to be carried down the mountain in
a ski patrol stretcher. I always told myself (sometimes delusionally)
that every time I fell I was learning something new, “hmm, next
time I won’t try doing a back flip off the chairlift.”
Really, really hard knocks I guess.
Gradually the skiing tapered off due mainly to
the aforementioned ticket prices and injuries, but I was also being
pulled in other directions like working, and spending a large part of
my then current life becoming a Heavy Metal Warrior. Sadly, the
racquetball interest waned significantly during the adolescent years.
That in between phase from kid to adult does weird things to
one’s head; and it only becomes apparent a few eons later. And by
this time I had all but put the sport and any lingering ninja desires
to bed for a long sleep.
We went to
slurp water from the drinking fountain before our next match. Silence;
and then I say, “you played hard dad, I thought you had me.”
“Yeah.”
Then more
slurping. At this point in a match there’s a razor thin line that
must be waltzed upon when it comes to water. Too little is bad; too
much is bad. And one thing I do have a talent for is proper water
consumption. In a devious way, I made something up about the rec center
mistakenly having the heat on in the racquetball courts and trailed it
off with some unhumorus attempts at bitchy humor that he doesn’t
really pay attention to but is polite and nodding anyway. And then I
pause just long enough for him to notice that I’ve stopped
talking and finish it off with, “seems like I need extra water to
combat the sweat release.” And I then proceed to stick my face in
the fountain with my lips closed not drinking for a good few seconds
and then look out of the corner of my eye at him waiting, probably in
deep concentration about his strategy in the next match or wondering
what he’s gonna have for dinner that night. I move out of the way
and he takes a nice long slurp.
Midway
through the next match he grabs his side and I see him wince and cringe
from the feeling of a belly full of water and I smile.
Fast Forward to 2002. Racquetball has been in
permanent remission since the early ‘90s as it’s diminished
popularity faded into the darkest corners of rec centers and clubs.
Sometimes the courts have been bulldozed in remodeling projects to make
room for more popular activities, or on some occasions, one battered
court is left remaining as a transformed squash/pickle
ball/badminton/racquetball court that allows for the most amount of
people in as little space as possible that is both economical for rec
centers and bad for scheduling. I once saw a place that used it’s
sole racquetball court as storage space – oh the times have a
changed.
’02 was coincidentally, the year my dad
hit 50 and started playing racquetball again. After playing the sport
into the ‘90s with fewer and fewer friends that knew of the game
or how to play it; the spaces between games turned to years and he
unknowingly let his racquet accumulate a hefty layer of dust. His
reasons for getting back into the game were duplicitous in a parental
and epicurean sense, as the idea was to spend time with my sister who
was away at college – albeit in state – and, eat. They
would meet once a week or so, play in the evening, and then embark on
dining adventures in some of Denver and Boulder’s best and worst
greasy spoons. For obvious gastrointestinal and sibling rivalry-like
reasons, I became jealous as hell when I found out about their
shenanigans. Could the ole kid sister be plotting behind my back to
become a rival ninja? A combatant ninjette? Perhaps; but to this day, I
do not know. So in retaliation and spite, I sent out a heated batch of
telepathy and offset it with some ESP, telekinesis, or some kind of
higher paranormal brainwave function that I had learned via a Time Life
Books infomercial circa ‘89. It did the trick, because after
months of pouting doldrums my dad asked me if I wanted to play
sometime. A smile.
I was 25 that first time. And it kicked my ass
so bad that I could hardly walk the next day. Seriously, I had trouble
getting out of the truck for a few days; it was excruciatingly
embarrassing. I’ve since learned that if one wants it to,
racquetball will beat you up, push you to your physical limits, and
generally manhandle your pride. And I say this because going into all
the matches I play with my dad, I have the utmost confidence that
I’ll succeed, and effortlessly win; but honestly that rarely
happens, even in present times. At first, he played me left handed,
which tipped things my way a little until he progressively got better
and became ambidextrous. Keep in mind that this man was twice my age
then. Nowadays he’s 56 and I feel like I’m in my physical
prime, yet I’ve been getting killed on a weekly basis for the
last 6 years! It’s almost not funny, but when I ponder it; I just
feel and know that my dad is by far the better athlete. He simply
deserves to win all the time. And it’s because he has an enormous
will that’s absolutely unbreakable, plus an ability to focus and
concentrate that is monkish in nature. Was he born with this innate
talent, or did he learn it during his time in the Eagle Scouts or the
Marine Corps? Maybe he developed it when he got bored during all those
marathons, bike tours, and triathlons? I should ask him sometime.
So what can I do? He’s got the talent
and discipline and I’ve got the creativity to think of
alternatives to substitute for my lack of skill. Among the things that
I’ve tried with varying degrees of success to help improve my
game are:
• a new racquet
• nutritious diet
• a new guitar
• change of employment
• new shoes
• vacations
• eye protection
• different haircuts
• new balls
• different venues
• not getting wasted the night before
• vitamins
• designating some of my clothes as ‘lucky’
• restringing of racquets
• positive thinking
• getting wasted the night before
• vegetarianism
• reading up on the game
• caffeine
• tennis
• stretching
• racquet gloves.
None of ‘em helped to the extent that I needed. But in the spirit
of not being a quitter, I’ve got a few things that I
haven’t tried yet that might do me some good.
• lessons
• exercising
• self-help books
• hookers
• a headband
• meditation
• binge drinking
• several new eyepieces for my telescope
• cheating
• composing racquetball poetry
• practicing
As is shown, the balance is tipped almost
significantly toward failure. ‘Almost’ because that
brilliant star to steer by revealed its beautiful head once again. Not
an astronaut or famous singer, or a plumber or office manager; but a
ninja cloaked in worn out clothes and a neat racquet, clumsily running
and jumping all over the court. I hear him instructing, guiding me
through play, smiling, having fun. Investing axioms of wisdom in my
head that come with age and vantage points. Keeping spirits up as I get
pummeled on game day. Making the whole adventure authentic as an
experience and not an outcome – the experienced road is long but
not endless and there’s much enjoyment to be had along the way. A
whisper in my ear; “shut the fuck up, quit your bitching, and
start having some fun!”
“Okay” I tell myself as I plan my comeback from an 11 point
deficit. And… BAM! My serve nearly cracks the concrete wall of
play, shattering the ball in the effect. It rains down singed blue
rubber that stinks real bad. Redo. I lob it to the right corner and he
struggles as he’s not quite sure how to return it. But he does.
Barely. I transform into a human Chinese Star by doing continuous front
flips up to the front of the court. Smack the ball, anticipate his
demise, but no. Again, he gets to it somehow – I don’t
know. I see the ball going to the other side of the court and meditate
for roughly 7 nanoseconds. A dive, then a crash; blood everywhere. But
I am not stopped because I returned it somehow. Barely. At this point I
feel and look like Rocky when he called out, “Yo Adrian! We did
it!” But it wasn’t over. His return hit came right at me
like I was a bullseye. I deflected it like a warrior with my racquet as
a shield, and it flew high, just scraping the wall. He hit back,
lobbing the ball – almost floating in the air. Everything went
into slo-mo. In awe, we both watched the ball ascend and then descend.
He was ready for whatever I might do; ninja or not. I gripped my
racquet with both hands in samurai fashion, cocked my arms behind my
head and flung it as an Excalibur to meet its match in the air.