An engineer overthinks tennis in a daily journal.
A short time after I wrote extensively about the ITF tennis ball testing procedures in 2020, I learned that both the USTA and Tennis Australia also have testing facilities and procedures for tennis ball testing. In fact, both of those national associations publish a list of approved balls that is divergent from the ITF list.
As I frequently tell my family, this blog doesn’t write itself. Today is an exception because it kind of did. Or rather, Ann Thompson wrote it for me back in 1977. It is a league Captain’s report card. It is one of the fascinating tennis artifacts that has turned up in the house of the Umpire Who Gave Birth to Me.
I found two vintage Elesse tennis outfits in the back of one of the cabinets in my room over the holiday. Inexplicably, they were in a place where tennis clothes were not historically stored. While I have no recollection of an intentional effort to keep these two specific outfits, these would have been likely candidates for sentimental retention.
May you have the spirit of Christmas which is peace, the gladness of Christmas which is hope, and the heart of Christmas which is love.
I continue to discover tennis artifacts scattered about the house during my extended stay with the Umpire Who Gave Birth to Me. Today’s object turned up in a cabinet under a sink. It is a metal tin with a nice early 80’s style custom paint job. “I’d Rather Be Playing Tennis.”
I am occasionally asked what my baby brother was like as a tennis player. I recently came across a picture that captures the essence of his play. My brother was consistently nationally ranked as a junior player and he also played NCAA Division I college tennis. At the same time, I would characterize his game as a marginally controlled train wreck.
Earlier this week USTA Texas Posted a challenge on Facebook “Tell me you’re a tennis player without telling me you are a tennis player.” The resulting comments were active and spirited. Some were better than others. As I continue to wander about in the house I grew up in, I have come to the realization that this house tells the story that a tennis player lives here, even in the absence of racquets and balls.
I have tried to exercise curbside pickup to the greatest extent possible since the onset of the COVID crisis. A significant driver of that practice is an abundance of COVID caution. However, I have to confess that I don’t really enjoy shopping. I have been ready for curbside pickup to go mainstream my entire life.
I have no recollection of the first time that a tennis racquet was thrust into my hand. However, I do recall the exact point in time that a tennis racquet came into my life. It unceremoniously appeared in the front seat of the family station wagon one afternoon as my mom retrieved me and my brother from my Grandparents.
I am suddenly and unexpectedly spending a lot of time in the house of the Umpire Who Gave Birth to me. She took a tumble shortly before Thanksgiving and has been in the hospital until yesterday. There is a whole lot more to the story. The trivial side effect of that development relevant to this blog is that I am finding all sorts of tennis artifacts in her house. In fact, I am probably going to be writing a lot in the future about some of these found objects.