An Unsung Bloodsport.

I walked toward the front door Thursday morning, bearing the fresh burden of the twenty-six ton man bag I'd just hurled across my shoulder. "See you tonight," I said.

"You bet you will." She stood in her bedroom doorway, looking every bit her just-woke-up teenagerness—pajama pants, one of fifty or so t-shirts emblazoned with her school's name, and the left half of her hair looking like Axle Rose's in that Welcome to the Jungle video. "March madness returns tonight," she said, betraying her non-enthusiastic appearance.

I grabbed the doorknob. "Yes, it does. Hey, good luck in your tennis match if you have one today."

"No match, just practice."

"Okay, then good luck at practice."

"No one says that, Dad," she replied, disappearing into the bathroom.

This spring is her final season of high school sports. After playing volleyball and basketball, each of which offer its own flavor of intensity, she's donning the old skort for the last time.

Ahh, tennis. It's the perfect tonic to ensure a kind and gentle ending. For the past four years, her coaches have permitted doubles teams to play together and stay together, so her partner has been her best friend the entire time.

Is it a recipe for overall team success? Probably not, but so what, they sure seem to enjoy themselves.

Sorry to get all Uncle Rico on you—again—but that ain't how things were back in my day. During the late Seventies, competition for spots on my high school tennis team was as fierce as it was moose-knuckled. We were constantly pitted against each other to determine the best combinations.

Plus, every once in a while, I had to play this guy who was so good, I seriously don't think I ever got a point off him. He had a tennis court in his backyard and his dad made the whole family play. Let's just say that kid toyed with me like a kitten nibbling a daddy long legs.

But, the weather was usually decent—by season's end you had a little bit of a tan—and our coach constantly took us out for ice cream.

However, a single overwhelming fact remains which made spring tennis the best sport of all:

It was co-ed.

Lots of cute girls.

In tennis dresses.

Sometimes they'd even show up with baked goods.

Usually ranked fifth,  I became a mixed doubles mainstay. My sixteen-year-old sensibilities were thrust into tri-weekly, ninety-minute relationships with different female temperaments. Most went well. I learned patience and how to choose my words carefully.

Even so, two ended in divorce.

About halfway through that sophomore season, I settled into a life of monogamy. The coach paired me with a freshman girl I sort of knew. We clicked immediately, mostly due to her inappropriate sense of humor and love of The Twilight Zone, but she was really interesting and smart. We became good friends and a fairly decent doubles team.

We entered the league tournament feeling pretty shaky. Neither of us had expected to compete in a varsity playoff, so we lost the first set badly, playing like our rackets were wrapped in meat. Finally, she and I settled a bit and began committing fewer unforced wood-clanking errors. We won the second set and after six games of the third and deciding set, the score was tied at three games apiece.

During the next game, as our opponents charged the net, I attempted a lob which, using tennis terminology, would be classified as weak ass. The guy on the other team rared back and slammed a laser beam—right into my partner's nose. She dropped her racket, grabbing her nose as blood dripped into her white, pleated skirt.

Her eyes welled with tears, yet her face displayed a look that wasn't one of pain as much as anger and frustration. People brought towels and ice, and then a strange adult approached us.

"You have five minutes to get back on the court or forfeit the match."

"Oh well," I thought. "We were doing great. Nothing to be ashamed of if we have to stop now..."

"I can play," she said. She moved the towel away, revealing her swollen nose and puffy eyes. "I think the bleeding is stopping."

"Really? Are you sure? " I couldn't believe it.

"Yep."

She walked back onto the court in her blood speckled clothes and settled in her previous spot, again a few feet from the net. I could tell our opponents, especially the guy, felt bad about the accident, but they also looked confident, like they'd hobbled us and intended to finish us off quickly.

Apparently, my partner had decided that since she'd committed to playing the remainder of the match with a swollen face and impressive headache, winning was the only option, since we didn't lose another game that day.

I'll bet I've told my daughter this story a million times and I'll probably repeat it a few more. That's okay. It never hurts to remember how a fifteen-year-old girl showed a sixteen-year-old boy the personification of toughness and loyalty.

I'll admit it: size matters

Last week, I sat down to catch a bit of the U.S. Open Tennis Tournament. It had been a while since I'd watched professional men's tennis, and even with the benefit of high definition, the ball was really tough to follow. The combination of equipment, speed and strength has created a sport where the server has an overwhelming advantage.

Thirty years ago, the game was far slower; the rackets were small and wooden, much like Tom Cruise. In this earlier photograph of me, you can see how much I had to strain to get some velocity on the ball.

Thank God for the muscle control of youth. Otherwise, tennis white would not have been a good color that day.














Now, I still grimace when hitting a tough shot, but that's only because I'm looking down at my filthy ridiculous biceps:

Naturally, tennis equipment isn't the only area of technological advancement throughout my life. There are so many others.

In the old days, children's car seats had no restraining devices; they were simply hooked over the front seat right next to the driver:

These seats were born out of practicality. Our moms needed someone nearby to hand them smokes while driving. Since we weren't belted in, I recall my mother wedging a small, portable ironing board between the dash and my still-forming sternum.

Here's a portable music device from the 1960s. It's not an iPod or even a Walkman. It's a transistor radio:

You were usually lucky to clearly tune in two stations, and one was the farm report. The other was the oldies station, which back then, was newies.



Portable phones have certainly evolved. Here's a model from 1982 (the phone, not the guy):

And here's how far cellular technology has advanced:

Rumor has it that prolonged exposure to cellular signals can muck up a man's naughty bits. Hopefully, the 1982 guy had sired all the children he needed before strapping that behemoth to his holster.



Pet clothing is a phenomenon that wasn't around back in the black and white days:

You don't need to dress your dogs all fancy-like right before they head down to the local school to keep those "new" kids from coming in.







Don't forget about the food category. Look at this guy. It's like he has no idea how he can possibly eat this entire yo-yo-sized burger:

Nowadays, that burger would be part of the McDonald's "Infant Meal."






This dude seems to be saying, "Uh, hello, I ordered the meal, so where are my fries and 64-ounce Diet Coke?"

Some foods haven't changed, but their packaging certainly has. Here's an old Cap'n Crunch box:

The cap'n seems fairly straight-edge and benign.









But what happened here? He looks like he's totally jonesing to get to happy hour with Sugar Bear the minute the photo shoot wraps:

A few items are indeed smaller than they were forty years ago, most notably computers, the ozone layer, automobiles, and, of course...

supermodels.









 Someone hand her that big burger.