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<\/a>The author’s father, Lee Gunst, on the tennis court. (Courtesy Kathy Gunst)<\/p>\nStan, my instructor, introduces himself. Slightly sweaty and thick in the middle, he looks better suited to selling pot at a local dispensary than being a tennis pro. He takes one look at my racquet and asks how long it\u2019s been since I played.<\/p>\n
The racquet, which I think of as \u201cmodern,\u201d is the last one my father gave me. It\u2019s lighter than the\u00a0 wooden ones I grew up playing with, issuing a nice, satisfying ping when you hit it just right.<\/p>\n
Stan explains that my racket won\u2019t work and hands me a new, lighter-than-air racquet. Suddenly I realize it has been a long time. The game has changed and so have I.<\/p>\n
My class has eight students, ranging from low-30s to me. At 68. I\u2019m the oldest in the group.\u00a0 After 15 minutes of lining up to hit balls \u2014 first backhand, then forehand, a few lobs, playing at the net \u2014 the game starts coming back to me.<\/p>\n
Some of the women in my class wear expensive-looking tennis dresses and fancy visors. The air of elitism is always what I hated about tennis; too clubby, too much of a clich\u00e9. But I am delighted to find that these women are so friendly \u2014 within 10 minutes of meeting, we share stories about child rearing, coping with the death of a parent. I feel at home.<\/p>\n
My new \u201cfriends\u201d cheer me on. I hit one so hard, so perfectly that I can hear my father \u2014 who has been gone for over two decades \u2014 screaming from the sidelines, \u201cThat\u2019s it Katrina, hit it just like that.\u201d<\/p>\n
Stan says \u201cWow! Can you do that again?\u201d I try, but the next one is a bust.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow long did you say it\u2019s been?\u201d And then he says what everyone I\u2019ve ever played tennis with in my adult life says: \u201cYou could have been really good.\u201d As if it\u2019s over and I missed my potential.<\/p>\n
But I learned it\u2019s not too late.<\/p>\n
As a child, I spent weekends watching my mother and father play singles and then doubles. My father, one of the elite players at his club in suburban New York, could\u00a0 be found on the courts every day of the week. He would beg me to join him, offering to teach me to serve, to work on building more strength in my backhand.<\/p>\n
Around the age of 10, I played with Dad in the late afternoons just before dinnertime, when he was finished with his real matches with his club friends. \u201cLet\u2019s have a private lesson\u201d he would say with a wink. I remember loving the one-on-one time with him, just us two on the court, hitting the white Wilson ball back and forth. I took lessons at a summer day camp, but within a year or so, I lost any real interest in playing the game.<\/p>\n
As a teen, I found it easy to find things to reject. Tennis, unfortunately, landed on my list of things I wanted no part of, along with the suburbs, playing card games and ladies’ lunches at the club.<\/p>\n
Yet here I am, 50 years later, wondering why I couldn’t have found something less healthy to rebel against.<\/p>\n
After we lost my father to cancer in 2001, I started obsessively watching tennis on television. Wimbledon,\u00a0 the French Open, the U.S. Open. I sat on my couch and rooted for Serena and Venus. I listened to John McEnroe commentate, hissing at his sexist comments. Watching my father\u2019s beloved sport made me feel like he was there with me; it helped me grieve him just a little less.<\/p>\n And then last winter, after feeling sluggish, I thought \u201cWhat if I got off the couch and stopped watching, signed up for a lesson and actually tried to play again?\u201d<\/p>\n That\u2019s how I found myself working on my backhand and serve at 68.<\/p>\n After that first lesson, and in spite of myself, I buy a short black tennis skort online. It arrives and I pair it with a sleeveless gray tank top, white socks and new blindingly white tennis sneakers. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I leave the house, tennis racket and balls in hand. It\u2019s my mother screaming \u201cI\u2019ll be at the club playing with the girls. Be home by 3!\u201d And I think, isn\u2019t this what I always wanted to avoid?<\/p>\n But I\u2019m in Los Angeles, where I\u2019m spending the winter to be close to my daughters and my\u00a0 granddaughter. And I\u2019m headed to a public court taking group lessons that cost about $20. I tell myself to shut up, because this is me, this is now, this is doing tennis my own way.\u00a0 The truth is, I am getting so much joy out of it.<\/p>\n A new hobby as I near 70 is reason enough to feel pride. But returning to a childhood sport —\u00a0 something that defined your family, but something you rejected (and thought you were done with) \u2014 is worth celebrating. My lower back and wrists tell me it’s a bit late to begin again, but I don\u2019t care. I leave every lesson beaming like a kid who had the best day at camp.<\/p>\n Here\u2019s what I remember. It\u2019s lesson #4. I\u2019m in the groove. Slamming balls, like my old self. Stan says,\u00a0 \u201cTime for doubles. When you win three shots you go to the other side of the court, the winning side.\u201d My partner and I hit three winners. Easily. We shuffle off to the winning side. We win one, two, three, four more. I\u2019m hitting like someone I don\u2019t recognize. All the years seem to fly backwards and I\u2019m there in some kind of timeless prime-time playing tennis. Not like the grandmother I am.<\/p>\n The shot comes close to the net and I remember thinking, you got this. I go into fourth gear and run. I can see the yellow orb, low but steady, and I need only two or three more steps, racket back and it’s mine and \u2026<\/p>\n I\u2019m on the ground. Face down. Get up, I tell myself, but I can\u2019t move. I hear my fellow students gather around. I hear someone say \u201cOh s\u2014!\u201d I want to get up, laugh it off. Old lady down.<\/p>\n But something hurts; something hurts bad. I roll onto my back and lift my hand in the air. It’s throbbing. Three of my fingers are headed in the wrong direction. My middle finger points off to the left, like a directional heading down a dead end. My ring finger looks like it’s pointing in the opposite direction, my pinky is buckled in the middle, and my knee is screaming. My ribs ache.<\/p>\n A fellow student, a woman I\u2019ve known for less than an hour, says \u201cI\u2019ll take you to urgent care.\u201d But Stan has already called an ambulance. I need to call my husband. Somehow my phone appears and someone puts my face up to the screen.<\/p>\n Before I know it, an ambulance arrives. Two men are asking me questions. Do I take any blood thinners? Medications? How\u2019s my level of pain? I\u2019m on the ground, lost in a swirl of pain (and yes, embarrassment). And then, out of nowhere, my husband, John, appears. \u201cOh sweetie, I\u2019m here,\u201d he says. He almost never calls me sweetie. I hear one of the young women say \u201cHe\u2019s amazing! I think I\u2019m in love with him.\u201d<\/p>\n And then I\u2019m inside the ambulance and they\u2019re giving me something. Morphine? There is a dark grey wool blanket coming up over my head and covering my body and the pain is somewhere, still there, and yet not.<\/p>\n At the ER, they tell me I need surgery, right away. Two fingers broken in several spots. The third finger is dislocated. I also have a broken rib. The ER doctor puts my fingers in a temporary cast (surgery will be days later). I wake to pain and a big fat cast that makes me look like I\u2019m trying out for the role of Captain Hook.<\/p>\n It\u2019s been six months since I had the surgery. My pinky is still bent in the middle, but thanks to months of PT, I have regained strength and dexterity in my right hand.<\/p>\n Earlier this summer a friend called and asked if I wanted to play tennis. I was told it was \u201csafe\u201d to play after five months, but I hesitate. What if I fall again? What if I lost all my new-found ability? What if? What if?<\/p>\n We meet at the public courts near my friend\u2019s home. I quickly explain that I\u2019m not willing to run for any crazy balls. I tell her I need to get back into it slowly. But within 10 minutes, I feel the exhilaration, the thrill. My right hand seems to be relatively happy to be back at it. No protest, cramping, or crippling fingers. I relax into the game.<\/p>\n When I hit the ball just right, and it makes that \u201cthwack\u201d sound in the middle of my racket, I feel a tingling through my body \u2014 call it endorphins \u2014 like nothing in the world matters except smashing this ball over the net.\u00a0 It\u2019s like a perfect dance move or hitting the note in a song just right. I remind myself that I am learning something new, something I don\u2019t find naturally easy at an advanced age, and that makes me love the game even more.<\/p>\n My friend calls out, \u201cHey, do you know you\u2019ve got a big smile on your face right now?\u201d I am not aware, but I\u2019m also not surprised.<\/p>\n My dad is there, again watching over me, and he smiles. \u201cYou got this, Katrina.\u201d<\/p>\n Follow Cog on Facebook<\/a> and Instagram<\/a>. And sign up for our newsletter<\/a>, sent on Sundays. We share stories that remind you we’re all part of something bigger.<\/p>\n<\/a>The author, as as a teenager, with her mother, Nancy, dressed in her tennis whites and her father, Lee. (Courtesy Kathy Gunst)<\/p>\n<\/a>An x-ray of the author’s right hand, showing two broken finger and a dislocated finger, after she fell on the tennis court. (Courtesy Kathy Gunst)<\/p>\n<\/a>The author, in the black hat, and her tennis instructor Nick and friend, Allison. (Courtesy Kathy Gunst)<\/p>\n