THE BATTALION
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 28, 1978
Page 7
;ports
I I
By Paul Arnett
T ennis... everyone?
HEW WINKLER
DAILY
7:35
9:35
netiufi
the hit
semestf
majoiis
My Sunday morning wake-up call
bunded all too soon.
It had been a wild weekend in
lubbock, full of wining, dining and
ninien. So after a moment’s reflec-
ition upon my Saturday night ac-
tiinplishmehts, I assaulted my
alarm clock, turned my electric
IJgiiket up a notch and prepared for
another five-hour visit with the
Idman.
so I thought.
fGet out of that bed and let’s go
play some tennis, my roommate
shouted from the living room.
j'You’re going to snore off a perfect
lay"
A perfect day, I thought to my-
If That means every guy and his
Igwill he out there trying to find a
ilirt.
JYou think we can find a court?” I
hirestjsked my roommate, hoping he
blinds, would say no.
•t Unii ISure, if you'll hurry up and get
the |cly.
Jifurry up and get ready, I said
’ents,sn myself in disgust. “Hurry back to
lamland.. .good tune.
jBut after five minutes of frus-
led lyrics and shattered sleep, I
se event nembered the commercial where
for still guy molds into his chair because
lack of exercise. Visions of a
irded marshmellow danced in my
id, so I said goodbye to the bed
went playing instead.
jVe drove to the tennis land of
jJtas A&M in time to witness some
CO H people fighting each other for a
Lu [oiut Driving past the battle field, I
jnembered when finding a place
lay tennis was as easy as finding
aptist in Texas.
|\Vhy the hell are all these people
here?” I asked Jamie angrily.
>k at all those weekend hackers
|ng to hit the ball.”
[Yea, he replied. “Look at those
ptfcvo idiots over on that court. It
bakes me mad seeing those clowns
ing ping-pong on tennis courts. ”
Iter a ten-minute stay at Aggie-
, we decided to try the Bee
k courts. There were a lot of
pie buzzing around the tennis
i — fortunately two of them were
rends.
StUlfe harrassed them into submis-
| and they soon left the court —
Rgine letting the gallery get the
Kt of you. We walked onto the sur-
i'OU r. te preparing ourselves for the big
reer Catch when two guys decided to
y SKJflty us a visit.
AV eVe been here Joilger than
mguys,” a portly fellow said. “Me
id my buddy have been waiting
^r;rc three years for this court.
looked at Jamie, he looked at
Elect
wew
ling (to
jineeic
me. We shrugged our shoulders and
said they could have the court. Back
on the road again, we told them off.
“Man, I hate rich people, Jamie
said. “Did you see the kind of car he
was driving; it was a 78 Firebird. I
wouldn’t have minded giving up the
court if he had been driving a VW.
But those rich guys are arrogant.
They think they own the world.”
“Yea, I know what you mean,” I
replied. “You think that’s had, try
washing your clothes around here.
It’s hard enough to get a tennis
court, but these people will cut your
throat for a washing machine.
Our next and last stop on the ten
nis tour was A&M Consolidated.
There, to our surprise, we found
two courts open. We wondered how
this could be, and in five minutes
we found out.
Two courts down from us a man
and his daughter were dinking the
ball back and forth. Most of their
shots were wandering over to the
next court, where two guys were
trying to play. But that wasn’t the
half of it.
The dynamic duo held a running
conversation that you could have
heard in Bryan. Every time Jamie
and I tried to concentrate, shouts of
how great the other was playing
boomed into our court.
“Great shot, honey! the man yel
led to his daughter. “But don’t think
I’m going to let you win. I ll let loose
my Jimmy Connors’ shot and kill
you. Ha, ha, ha!”
Well, this went on for an hour.
Instead of a quiet tennis-like atmo
sphere, the courts sounded like a
Barnum and Bailey circus. If that
wasn’t bad enough, right next to us
some 10-year-olds decided today
was the day they would take up the
game.
It was like trying to serve out of a
foxhole, with little yellow missiles
threatening our very lives.
“Good show, Paul, Jamie would
say. “You managed to sneak one
over. Too had I mixed it up with
these other three whipping through
here.
We had to stop every other volley
to sort laundry.
“OK, the bald ball belongs to the
jerks three courts down, the two
orange ones are the carnival bark
er’s . . . who the hell’s playing with
this racquet ball! We’ll keep this
new one, we deserve it.”
On one occasion Jamie tossed our
Dunlop up iii the air to serve, lost it
in the sun, and wound up catching a
Wilson from the court next door.
“I can’t believe it, Jamie said.
“Everyone south of Hearne has de-
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cided to play tennis. It’s like a circus
out here.”
It was a lackluster first set. But
our hopes were raised when the
carnival barker two courts down cut
loose with this sentence.
“Honey, your old man is getting
tired. I’m afraid it s time to go
home.
“Oh you’re nothing but a Crun
chy Granola bar, daddy, his daugh
ter said. “Let s play two more
games.”
Damn, I thought to myself. Just
when it looked like the barker was
going home, his daughter talks him
into staying. But what came next
was a real heartbreaker.
“I think I’m getting my second
wind, the mouth said. “Let s play
some more.
Double fault for me when that
sentence hit the airways.
“I can’t, daddy,” she said. “I have
a test tomorrow.”
With that the dynamic duo went
home. But the damage had been
done.
“Let’s go home and watch tennis
on TV,” Jamie said. “The hackers
have taken over the tennis world.
We packed our gear and headed
to the house. Our conversation was
sparse on the return trip. It had
been a long afternoon.
“You know who said tennis, any
one?” I asked my reflection in the
window.
“No, who?” Jamie replied.
“Humphrey Bogart, I answered.
“Well after today, I ll never play
it again, Sam, Jamie joked.
“Neither shall I.
Back at the homestead I looked at
my racket for the last time before
placing it back upon the shelf, and
in my best Bogie imitation said,
“Here’s looking at you, kid.
I silently shut the closet door,
went into the living room, turned on
the TV and settled back. On the
tube was the “you re going to mold
into your chair commercial.
I got up and changed channels.
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