When I think of tennis, one name usually pops up, and folks my age in south Arkansas will recognize it immediately: It’s Myron Schofner. As I have gotten older, I retired from singles tennis, but I am still active, and I credit my health and stamina to my obsession with tennis. This is my tennis story.
When we moved back to El Dorado in the mid-1970s, tennis was a national obsession, and I had played for several years in Corpus Christi, Texas. I thought I was a pretty decent player, and I immediately started playing on the local courts. After a couple of years playing singles tennis with friends and others, someone said to me, “You should give Myron Schofner a call. He’s always looking for a match.”
Well, I gave Myron a call, and he said, “Sure, how about this afternoon?”
Myron was 15 years older than me, so I figured he might take a few games early on, but I would be able to handle him easily. Boy, was I wrong! We played six sets, and the score was the same in every set: 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0, 6-0. I felt lucky to win a point, much less a game. I figured that would be all the tennis we would play, but when we finished, Myron said, “How about tomorrow?”
Well, that was the start of a tennis friendship that lasted several decades, and although I finally managed to win a game or two, it took me several decades to actually win a match. Myron didn’t have an overpowering serve, and he didn’t play at the net, but he would return my serve into the corner of the court, and after I ran down a few of his shots, I would make a mistake.
We played at least three times a week, weather permitting, and we only canceled if the temperature dropped below 40 degrees. There were no “too hot” cancellations, and since singles tennis with Myron was primarily a running game, I got a huge exercise bonus from playing him. There were few quick points, and Myron could return anything I hit. Some of our points took minutes to complete, and after a few years, we played each other for at least 30 years, always three or sometimes four times a week. On my days off, I would run to build up my stamina, and I was in the best shape of my life.
Both of our kids played on the El Dorado High School tennis team, and when we traveled, our rackets went with us. On one of those vacation trips when Vertis and I went on vacation, I always took my racket because the resorts we visited always had courts, and finding a game was always easy.
I remember a vacation trip to California, and when I asked the resort manager about someone to play a match, he said, “Let me make a couple of calls.” He did and called me in.
“Richard, the John Wayne Tennis Center said to come by, and they would fix you up with a match, but you must wear white and abide by strict tennis rules.”
I was OK with that, and I stopped by the center, and the head pro nodded when I asked about a match.
“Yeah, we do have a possible match, but the guy is a ranked California player, and he may not agree to play an unranked player from Arkansas.”
Well, I got a call the next day, and the pro said, “He agreed to play you, but remember, he’s a ranked player in California.”
Well, I was a little concerned about playing a ranked California player, but the next day I put on my white tennis clothes and headed for the John Wayne Tennis Center.
Well, Mr. Ranked California tennis player was very friendly, and he looked to be about 20 years younger than me, but he did seem as if he was just being nice to someone from out of town. We took the court and started warming up, and it didn’t take long to figure out he was a serve-and-volley player. He had a good but not great serve and a good forehand, but his backhand was suspect.
The first set went by rather quickly, which he won, but toward the end of the set I figured out how to return his serve and get the ball in play, and the last two games of the set took longer than the first four.
Set No. 2 started with a lucky break for me when he double-faulted, and I took the first game, but by then I had figured out his serve, and each game took longer and longer to play. I could tell I was in better shape than he was, and as I took the set, he was visibly tired. From playing Myron in the Arkansas heat, I was noticeably in better condition, and when we started the third set, his serve had lost a little zip, and I was able to hit slice returns to his backhand. Then, when he came to the net, I would float a lob over his head, which, toward the end of the set, got him frustrated, and he actually tossed his racket after I hit one of many low slices to his backhand.
Well, I won the set and the match, and as we walked off the court, he commented, “You’re in better shape than I am, and you are a surprisingly good player. You know I’m ranked in California.”
“Well, I’m ranked in Arkansas,” I replied.