Redneck Tennis

After almost 2 full weeks of Wimbledon, shortly after 2 full weeks of the French Open, I'm itching to play tennis.  However, it's hot as balls here.  There was a brief break in the 90-degree heatwave last night, since it tried to storm all day yesterday, without success.  (Just fucking rain already!)  I waited for Annie to get home from her kickball league, and I dragged her and Angel out to the nearby courts.

I've yet to see anybody else out there playing tennis since we moved here.  However, as we turned the corner and started down the parking lot, there was a doubles match and a woman with a ball machine taking up 2 of the 4 courts.  There was a dog tied inside the court by the doubles match, similar to what we were about to do.

So, we set up shop next to the doubles players.  The first thing I heard them say was some drawl-y reference to Wimbledon.  The only thing going for them that looked remotely Wimbledon, was the white wife-beater that one was wearing.  One was shirtless.  One had steel-toe work boots on.

As Annie and I hit around, I couldn't help but be entertained at their version of tennis.

Their score worked like this:  get a point, add a point.  So instead of 15-30, it'd be 1-2.  If you got to 4-4, it'd go back to 3-3, "because that's how them French do it.  They call it deuces."

Anytime a ball would end up next to their tied up dog, there'd be some comment like, "you're gettin' greedy, Blue. You got your ball."

"Hey, before we leave, can we play one at a time.  I want to see what it's like to have to run this whole court."  "You don't have to run the whole court, you gotta run from that line-y thing to that one."  "This white line-y thing?"  "To the other one."

I'm not great at tennis, but their skills made their game look more like pickleball.  All I could think of was, how in the hell did these guys decide to come out and attempt to play, and who the hell had all of the racquets and balls?  And, why the hell are they watching Wimbledon?

If I'm lyin', I'm dyin',
~RoB

P.S. Throughout this blog, I've Google Image searched some of the strangest phrases, with even stranger results.  Like these for "redneck tennis":

Stosur's Arms

Last night, Sam Stosur won her first tennis major by thoroughly thrashing Serena Williams.  Yes, tennis.  Some of us watch classy sports like that.  Hell, I've been to the U.S. Open twice.  Anyway, this was the first time that I can ever remember not rooting for Serena.  Why you ask?

Because I'm in love with Samantha Stosur's arms.

I want her to punch me in the face with them.

I want her to defend my honor at some bar and punch the fuck outta somebody.

I was pretty infatuated with her during the French Open two years ago.  I think she should have won, but she lost to the old, funny-looking, Italian chick.  I thought that there was something powerful in her play, but I couldn't nail down what made her so attractive.  I mean, the way her balls kick out makes for great tennis.  It wasn't until last night, while watching her destroy one of my girls, that I said aloud what it was.

I turned to Annie and told her how much Stosur's arms did it for me.  Annie replied by notifying me that her arms were way too big, and that they look like they belong to a man.  Her conclusion was that I must be in love with big, strong, muscular men.  Maybe this is my first step in admitting how hot muscles are.  Maybe Annie is pushing me outta the closet.  Maybe I really do just one some crazy girl with arm muscles to punch me in the face.  Wait, did I already say that?

You and me, Stosur.  You and me.  Have your people call mine,
~RoB

Mosswood Chronicles

These days I regularly play tennis at some very interesting courts.  They are at a park called Mosswood in Oakland.  They don't have grass growing in the cracks like my high school courts, but they are in really, really poor condition.  The reason we keep going back is because they have lights and they are always empty.  I've never once waited for a court.  Heck, I've never seen more than one other court in use.  The other court in use could easily be a soccer player as much as a tennis player.  Anyway, it's near a rougher part of Oakland, and these are some random things that have happened to me (more often the people I was playing) since we've started playing tennis there.

Fat Fan

A thug-looking man with his pants sagging stood next to the fence waiting for the bathroom on a Sunday evening.  I was on the opposite side of the court.  I could see that he was talking smack to my opponent, but it wasn't until he left that I got the scoop.  Apparently, his biggest comment was: "Don't underestimate the fat one.  I used to be fat."  My first thought was, 'does that guy think he's in good shape now?', but it changed to just being happy that he thought I was taking it to my college roommate, who is tall, in good shape, and gorgeous.
 
"He sure is working a lot less than you are," was the other comment he had, apparently.  I don't know whose skills this is a testament to.  Either I'm rocking the corner shots, or I'm firing wildly while he returns everyone right down the center back to me.  Either way, thanks for being the thug-est cheerleader I've ever had.

A Foot in the Grave, A Hand of Bridge

Early one hot Sunday afternoon, my old roommate and I were out there playing.  Slowly, old people started piling into the adjacent rec center.  When I say slowly, I mean that every other senior had a walker.  They cruised by the courts at paces close to a one-legged dog's top speed.  After the first dozen went by, I asked what was going on.  I was informed it was a big bridge tournament.  Not less than 10 minutes later, an ambulance pulled into the parking lot of the facility.  I immediately had a little giggle to myself, wondering what brand of hip it was bringing in for some unlucky senior.

5 minutes later, my friend joked about how the ambulance was going in circles.  I had to notify him that it was actually another ambulance that pulled into the driveway.  The ambulances were apparently just on stand-by. They were still there when we left almost an hour later.  I, of course, assume they were for the seniors playing bridge, but I guess I can't count out the short baseball players running around in the field dressed in capris with tall, striped socks and tshirts.  They were probably going for a 1930's baseball player look, but the guy that ran buy us just looked like a leprechaun with his shaped, ginger beard.

Line Judge

Annie and I were playing once, when a chubby African American kid started climbing all over the fence behind her.  Again, I could see he was saying stuff, but it is impossible to hear on these courts because they are located next to the freeway.  Apparently, he was behind her keeping score.  Annie claimed he had no concept of how tennis actually worked, and he just kept giving me points if I hit it hard and at her, no matter where it actually landed.  The best part was when I initially asked her "What was that little girl saying to you?" and Annie responded with "Actually, it was a little boy."

Beer, Anyone?

One time when we showed up to play, the trash can on the courts was filled with at least 8 broken up cases from 12-packs of beer.  I don't know what kind of crazy, homeless, house party went on in those courts, but it didn't smell like pee or puke, so whatever.

Rapper's Delight

This past sunday, the park was overflowing with loud club music, with a loud, driving bass beat.  In between points I would look over at what was going on, but I could never get a good view of anything.  At one point, a gaggle of random people collected beside the courts.  At some point, one white guy holding the leash of a bichon frise starts freestyling for the little girl on the shoulders of one of the other standers-by.  He went for a while.  I can't attest to the quality, since, as usual, I was on the other side of the court.  Maybe I should start standing by the bathrooms/rec center!  Or maybe I should look less intimidating, like the people I'm playing. ;)

I'd like to return to the Berkeley Rose Garden to play, but those bitches pissed me off when they complained we were playing too long.  We weren't.  No question.  Karma will get you old, crabby bitches.

Tennis in sketchy Oakland, anyone?
~RoB

Easter Games

It's an annual tradition (started long before I came around) that Annie's family celebrates Zombie Jesus Day by getting together and playing games.  There is usually a theme to the weekend (Deal or No Deal, Olympics, etc.). There's usually some tennis (sometimes a tourney).  The weekend usually ends with an easter egg hunt for the kids (and like Xmas, 'kid' is loosely defined as anyone without a child, so I'm still thrown in with middle-schoolers).

I've made references to the manliness of working with my hands over the past few weeks.  Well, these are the secret project I was working on:

Cornhole!  Complete with maize & blue cornbags.

Collapsed Beer Pong (L) & Flip Cup (R) Tabletops.

Unfolded Collapsible Beer Pong (T) & Flip Cup (B) Tabletops.

Ladder Golf!

Somehow, Annie and I got put in charge of the games this year.  So, she came up with a tailgate theme (bringing the best of the Midwest to her granola-y, hippie, Californian family).  I commenced to getting all of those games built and painted.  Don't get me wrong, Annie helped a little (she half spray painted the tops of the bases of the ladder golf... and some of the yellow on ladder golf... and the big M's on beer pong and cornhole [which I outlined for her]).  I also had some help from her uncle and his powertools.  In general, though, most of this was done by me with really simple tools and a fair amount of time!

We split the 20 people into 10 randomly-assigned teams and randomly assigned each team a color.  We asked teams to wear their colors and made everyone play each other until there was an overall winner.  Yes, some people ended up playing beer pong with their grandparents.  Yes, children were screaming at parents to flip cups faster.  (People were allowed to drink whatever they wanted, so the 12 year old wasn't throwin' back brewskies.)

Judging by the volume of the festivities (and my slight drunkenness after adding Jack to my Coke for the drinking games), much fun was had by all!

We needed to build these for our epic Michigan Football Tailgating plans this Fall anyway,
~RoB

Death by Fast Food

Last Saturday was one of those days where I just felt off.  Annie and I got up and rushed to Zumba.  (Have I mentioned how much I Zumba?  If you don't know what that means, don't look into it.)  Anyway, we were late (a typical occurrence lately) and it was packed full.  I told Annie I didn't even want to do it if there were that many people (I like a lot of space to get my dance on!).  She looked at me like I was being dramatic, but she gave in and we left.

We drove over to Bake Sale Betty in hopes that the fresh strawberries at the farmers' market meant that they'd be making her favorite dessert: strawberry shortcake using their buttery scones.  They had them, and that made her day.  We also found out that they can make their famous chicken sandwiches without green pepper, so I am excited to go back and try another one (their cole slaw is almost entirely bell pepper, and I didn't like it).

We then took Angel to the dog park for a while and decided to drive out to Alameda's Borders since it was due to close on Tax Day and may have a bunch of cheap finds.  The only way she convinced me to go was by saying that I could get my tennis racquet restrung at the Big 5 next door.  I broke one of my strings while playing the evening before.  So, I gave in.  It turns out that Big 5 doesn't restring racquets.  That, and the long line at Jamba Juice that I decided to avoid, got me frustrated.

Though I did find a book I'd needed to finish a series for $3 at Borders, I was still a little moody.  When I was walking to my car, I saw that the Jamba Juice was still too busy.  I noticed that See's Candy was empty though, and I snuck in for a few of my favorites: milk chocolate butterscotch squares.  Way better than bordeaux.  Way better.

I knew that Sports Authority restrung racquets, so we had to make the trek back to Emeryville.  After finally getting my tennis racquet in for stringing (which led to a free $130 racquet), I walked next door to Taco Bell for some comfort food.  I wasn't super hungry, but I definitely wanted something to help my sour mood.

It's really sad that I consider that comfort food.  Yet, like all fast food, there's something satisfying about it, even though it's certainly awful for me and regularly don't enjoy the feelings I'm left with.  It's like they use MSG or something.

Anyway, comfort food it was not.  All I wanted to do for the next few hours was throw up.  I tried a few times, unsuccessfully.  I don't think I'm even capable of throwing up any more.  I haven't actually vomited since I was in 8th grade, a story which has been retold so many times that Annie probably feels like she was there with me.  I pretty much laid around moaning until I finally just went to bed.

Everything went better on Sunday, and since then, but crappy Taco Bell really capped an already-bad day,
~RoB

I think I'm avoiding Toxic Hell for a while.