One More Year

By Gary Beck

He plays tennis for the love of the game...

I know what they think of me. An old guy cluttering the court, knocking off kids who have a chance to go somewhere. Well I am an old fart. I’ll be 37 soon. I haven’t won a tournament in years. But sometimes I still get to the second round of minor tournaments and win enough money to go to the next tournament. I don’t have fantasies anymore of winning a tournament. It’s not just that I’m too old. It’s these young kids. They’ve got all the shots, 130 mile per hour serves, they run all day and hit the ball a lot harder than I do. And they’re urgent to win. These kids don’t tank matches.

I tried in the past to tell some of them I’m not a spoiler. I love the game and want to play as long as I can. I don’t have any prospects when tennis is through with me. I’m not ranked high enough to be a club pro. Who would have me now? The last time I checked I was ranked 387. I once broke 150 and got into some tournaments without playing the qualies. But I always met one of the seeds and wasn’t good enough to beat them. But I made enough money to go to tournaments all over the world. I played in some weird places, Africa, Asia, Pacific Islands that no one heard of, where I got free hotel, meals and only had to pay air fare.

I make enough money to keep traveling to low level tournaments weekly, never earning enough to afford a coach anymore. I’m always available for doubles that sometimes works out. I’m luckier with mixed doubles. There’s almost always a woman who needs a partner. We don’t get very far, but it’s found money. Every little bit keeps me playing. There’s always someone who needs a hitting partner. I would stay an extra day or two after the first or second round. And a parent or coach would pay my hotel and food bill to hit with the next round players. Some people think the grind of going to tournaments week after week is too much. Not me. Then the injuries came, all with initials or latin names.

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First I fell past 150, but I was in the 160s, so I could still get in the qualies. Then one day I was 30 years old, ranked 227. That’s when the real struggle began. I still had good groundies, used more slice and spin on my serve, didn’t go to the net as much and definitely lost a step. I could still beat some players, specially those who lacked confidence whose games would go away under pressure. But anytime I won a first round I always met a top seed and lost. The luck of the draw was always against me.

Money got tighter. The hotels became seedier and the food cheaper. No matter what, I had to have good equipment. I didn’t get anything free anymore. If the strings broke I paid for restringing. If the sneakers went I bought new ones. My wardrobe was shabby. Fortunately white t-shirts were cheap. So I managed. A few more years went by and I was closing on 38, which meant I had to qualify for every tournament, even the Camaroon Open. Some of the older players hired me as a hitting partner out of pity. That usually came with useless advice. ‘Why don’t you become a coach?’ ‘Become a tournament official’. Other completely impractical suggestions. I was never good at socializing and certainly lacked advancement skills. One of my few friends, an older player struggling like I was, from a country now nameless, said: ‘Think about Pickle Ball. It’s real big now. They have a professional circuit and you could make some money’. How could I tell him I only wanted to play tennis?

Well I’ll be 38 soon. Most of the young kids are blowing me off the court with big power shots. When I hit a good forehand it comes blasting by me. I hit a good serve and they hit a winner off it. The aggressive kids come to the net and hit effortless volleys. They’ve got every shot in the book and I have no idea how to beat them. The year’s coming to an end soon. The one good thing I’ve managed is to play in the warm climates during the winters. Better heat than cold for my aching bones. Right now, if I’m lucky and don’t get hurt, if I earn enough to get into tournaments, I can keep playing. That’s what my life has come to, the hope for one more year. Then I’ll worry about the future.