The People at My Tennis Club

Milton calls me Jacob. He has for years. There is nothing extraordinary about this except my name is not Jacob, and for about a year or so Milton has known it. He got wise one early Saturday when we were sharing the practice wall at the club, pretty much the only place we see each other. A passerby greeted me by my real name. Milton turned to me with an expression I imagine a dentist wears when he discovers he has pulled the wrong tooth. As it happens, Milton is a dentist and foot-faulting past the eight-decade mark cannot be altogether unfamiliar with the awful feeling. Still, I regretted his abrupt education and rushed to assure him. I said I liked being called Jacob; that once translated into English my dad’s name was Jacob. I even told him about the security guard in the building where my parents had a sandwich shop, who called me Hank for twenty-two years. Al, as we knew him, must have known at some point, or even from the beginning, that my name wasn’t Hank but figured I didn’t mind and went on that way to the end when he died at age 78 with a full head of pomaded hair and a pack of Camels in his shirt pocket. I told Milton he should go on calling me it. Now when we run into each other on early Saturday mornings, Milton greets me as Jacob and we go on just as before. He tells me stories about the club and the city from a time long before I stepped foot in either, or for that matter, long before I stepped foot anywhere. I ask him about his most recent lesson with Ignacio and what part of his game they are working on these days. We enjoy the morning quiet and the steady sound of tennis balls thumping the dark green wall, Milton and I.

Dick is a real gentleman and a paragon of equanimity. It’s no surprise, therefore, that he was elected to head the club’s tennis board of governors this year. It is a surprise that he ran at all, however. I am guessing someone, most likely some scarred predecessor, begged him to take the job. In my mind, Dick must attract positions of responsibility as naturally and effortlessly as Federer collects trophies. As anyone who has had him for a partner or an opponent on the tennis court would guess, he appears neither to relish nor neglect the distinction of his new office. This is a good thing in a ruler whose subjects’ sense of entitlement is surpassed only by their ability to find fault.

Jeff, apparently, is not a gentleman, not by a long shot. Many at the club openly speculate about a direct blood-line tethering the man to Lucifer. Someone in my earshot once likened him to Nastase but without his sense of fair play. You’d think the man worked for Alberto Gonzales. In truth, he is a minor Hollywood agent, one, according to club rumor, specializing in actors whose main source of income is restaurant tips. Nevertheless, Jeff has a place at the club. He was the club champ before he was eclipsed by new, younger faces and can still hold his own against anyone at the club. Stories about his outbursts and tantrums are so copious that no conversation may not be revived with one of them withing easy reach. What's more, Jeff reminds us all who haven't won the club championship that there is more to life than being good at tennis.

Andy’s secret weapon is a serve with enough spin to make a press-secretary cringe. Its malice is so plain that it’s hard for one not to take it personally. When Andy hits his serve just right, the arcing ball lands in the service box just inches from the net and quickly abandons all regard for the laws of physics. The astonished receiver, once past his disbelief, makes a late lunge but is soon reduced to the kind of nervous giggling people get after they step into shin-deep rain puddles. Off the court, Andy is all friendliness and kindness, and, in that state, proof that tennis has the power to alter personality.