I was denied summer camp as a child. I skipped the college dorm life.
For the past 2 years, I filled the camp/dorm fake nostalgia with Newks tennnis camp in the god-forsaken hills of Texas. My friends go, but I don’t go for the tennis. It’s summer camp for adults with alcohol.
It’s a place I can wake up and scream out the window: “Hey Geno… Fuck You.” The only feedback I got came from people who don’t know me — but they know goat-fucking Geno: “Do that louder.”
I’ll spare you the many mini trauma’s of my inner child other than Joe finally finished a fucking cookie by himself. (Maybe he’s not a pussy after all?) But he started leaving beer in glasses all over town. His “friends” keep texting me pictures of mostly full beers Joe has left behind as he sashays his way home.
“You gotta do something about Joe,” they say, like I have a miracle cure for douchebaggery.
Anyway, Day 3 or 4 of Newks, I had enough nostalgia, sobered up a bit and focused on “my game”. The millennials who teach at Newks were full of really good advice.
- “Don’t swing so hard.”
- “Reach up on the serve.”
- “Reach out on the swing.”
- “Don’t wrap the racquet around your chest.
- “Move your feet.”
- “Take the ball early.”
- “Move back a step to give yourself time.”
- “Don’t use so much wrist.”
- “Hit the slice serve with more topspin.”
Normally, no matter how much that advice costs, I ignore that shit. My plan: “I’m going to hit the ball as hard as I can, and hope it goes in.”
I’m not going to pretend it’s a winning strategy, but it makes me feel better.
This time, I tried to do all the changes at once. As the ball came toward me, every douchey bit of advice from every douchebag millennial raced through my head. My feet were not moving. Or my feet tried to move in both directions at once. My wrist was stiff. My reach was “out” (whatever the fuck that means).
Result: shots were in the bottom of the net or the back of the fence for weeks on end.
There were a few shiny seconds of hope when Joe and Geno were on the other side of the court. I was fucking Lee Harvey Oswald (without the murder part). Miracle shots were like magic bullets making both their heads move back and to the left.
“You should hit everything like you just hit those 6 balls,” Joe said. Thanks Captain Obvious (now finish your beers, you fucking newly-renewed pussy).
I leave Texas, and can’t play tennis for shit. Double faults, missed volleys – I whiffed on multiple easy over-heads.
“I’m quitting this fucking game,” I pronounced in the bar at the 3rd world racquet club, like I’m Goddamn Griff pronouncing it’s time to go home…. Not even the mice believed me.
It was Larry the Lawyer (the Pliny pusher) who fixed me, for fuck’s sake. I was pissing and moaning after missing another easy shot.
“Yeah, whatever,” Larry said. “You should have some more juice and someone has got to drink this All Day IPA.”
Two days later we won our league match, and I didn’t suck that bad.
Experts say that alcohol is not a solution to your problems. Wrong again shit heads.
If your problem is you think too much, alcohol is the perfect solution. Just ask Larry. He’s the poster boy for better living through booze. I’d show you a picture, but he’s a lawyer, for fuck’s sake, so you know….