Relapse
For those of you who never knew Christine had problems like these, well folks, it’s out of the closet now.
Today, after years of abstinence, I succumbed. When I left Canada, somehow, I thought I had left this part of my life behind me, minor dalliances post-move aside. But even as I began to contemplate a return, just the other day, I was reminded by the heady, breathless anticipation, that despite the lengthy separation, the flame had truly not died. The delirium, as we rekindled our tie anew. And the wave upon wave of residual effect, not just from my one fleeting point of contact of late, but from my reconnection with a life, with year upon year of sensations, experiences, memories of friends of association. All now I can feel it reverberating head to toe, thought, mood and bodily sensation. Ah yes, I’ve got it bad.
TENNIS. Worse than crack, they say.
Or maybe it is a marriage of souls made in heaven.
I used to play just about daily when in my earlier twenties, back in Canada. Three four hours a day would be a norm. After work, down to the club, meet up with the usuals, and hit hit hit, until the lights went out, which might have even been after we begged for and got an extension of time. I have such fond memories of these times. The friends that I made, the rush that went with hitting the ball just so, on that sweet spot, maybe forehand down the line, the rush of duelling with a friend, pulling out all the stops, or even the rush that went with hearing the banter of that voice from another court… oh, those were the days.
Some of the friendships remain, but having moved to Barbados, sustaining tennis as I knew it was not so easy. Public courts limited and full, private courts pricely and not readily accessed by me due to issues of locale, my limited mobility sans auto, and resulting potential demands of time and energy. Too much. So I resigned myself to leaving it out. Abstinence being less painful than an occasional reminder of how my skills would dwindle without their regular and frequent use.
From the moment I dug deep into my closet and pulled out my racket, noting the colour and consistency change of the racket case, to struggling to open the case zipper, frozen shut after years of disuse, I knew a powerful swell was rising. That feeling when I held the racket in my hand, turning it back and fro, happily the newer grip tape faring better than the zipper. My extra energy and excitement as I performed the movements of various strokes in my kitchen. Getting out on the court and beginning a warm up. Feeling the old annoyance of knowing just what I did wrong and the focus of knowing how I intended to do it better next time around, stroke by stroke.
Short but sweet, the rain ended our attempt, my two friends and I, just as we were getting warmed up. This closure was timely rather than premature, given that my shoes, toe rubber hardened and discoloured, and rubber beginning to separate from leather, rapidly continued their deterioration into fragmentation. We can only speculate how our bodies might have revolted, if pushed further.
I will continue. My friends guttaperk and currycrab are of comparable intent, so the supports are in place. Mind you, my Trini friend currycrab is at risk of being swiftly diverted from tennis to breakfast if triggered adequately by a reminder of doubles. I know the perils and pitfalls. And besides, I far prefer singles.
Incidentally, this journal was last updated a mere 180 weeks ago, so I figure I am truly inspired…
Today, after years of abstinence, I succumbed. When I left Canada, somehow, I thought I had left this part of my life behind me, minor dalliances post-move aside. But even as I began to contemplate a return, just the other day, I was reminded by the heady, breathless anticipation, that despite the lengthy separation, the flame had truly not died. The delirium, as we rekindled our tie anew. And the wave upon wave of residual effect, not just from my one fleeting point of contact of late, but from my reconnection with a life, with year upon year of sensations, experiences, memories of friends of association. All now I can feel it reverberating head to toe, thought, mood and bodily sensation. Ah yes, I’ve got it bad.
TENNIS. Worse than crack, they say.
Or maybe it is a marriage of souls made in heaven.
I used to play just about daily when in my earlier twenties, back in Canada. Three four hours a day would be a norm. After work, down to the club, meet up with the usuals, and hit hit hit, until the lights went out, which might have even been after we begged for and got an extension of time. I have such fond memories of these times. The friends that I made, the rush that went with hitting the ball just so, on that sweet spot, maybe forehand down the line, the rush of duelling with a friend, pulling out all the stops, or even the rush that went with hearing the banter of that voice from another court… oh, those were the days.
Some of the friendships remain, but having moved to Barbados, sustaining tennis as I knew it was not so easy. Public courts limited and full, private courts pricely and not readily accessed by me due to issues of locale, my limited mobility sans auto, and resulting potential demands of time and energy. Too much. So I resigned myself to leaving it out. Abstinence being less painful than an occasional reminder of how my skills would dwindle without their regular and frequent use.
From the moment I dug deep into my closet and pulled out my racket, noting the colour and consistency change of the racket case, to struggling to open the case zipper, frozen shut after years of disuse, I knew a powerful swell was rising. That feeling when I held the racket in my hand, turning it back and fro, happily the newer grip tape faring better than the zipper. My extra energy and excitement as I performed the movements of various strokes in my kitchen. Getting out on the court and beginning a warm up. Feeling the old annoyance of knowing just what I did wrong and the focus of knowing how I intended to do it better next time around, stroke by stroke.
Short but sweet, the rain ended our attempt, my two friends and I, just as we were getting warmed up. This closure was timely rather than premature, given that my shoes, toe rubber hardened and discoloured, and rubber beginning to separate from leather, rapidly continued their deterioration into fragmentation. We can only speculate how our bodies might have revolted, if pushed further.
I will continue. My friends guttaperk and currycrab are of comparable intent, so the supports are in place. Mind you, my Trini friend currycrab is at risk of being swiftly diverted from tennis to breakfast if triggered adequately by a reminder of doubles. I know the perils and pitfalls. And besides, I far prefer singles.
Incidentally, this journal was last updated a mere 180 weeks ago, so I figure I am truly inspired…