To Lob or Not to Lob....that is the Question

Dear Boo and Bubble,

For the last few days, Captain and I have been volunteering at the Family Circle Tennis Tournament in Charleston.  We are working with your Aunt Bee in the kitchen making the food for the players, who are top tier professional women.  Trust me, even being women, they eat a lot of food, especially fruit - which keeps me hopping because I’m in charge of the salad and cold food stations.  From the time I get there at 6:00 AM, I’m chopping strawberries, cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, kiwi and whatever else might be provided by the caterer.  As soon as I take it out and return to my prepping area, it’s time to go back again. 

The ones that drive me especially crazy are the strawberry buzzards.  These are the players who will stand over a bowl of perfectly good mixed fruit and pick through it to find strawberries….sort of like opening a can of mixed nuts and only eating the cashews. 

But, I digress.  Tennis has always been an integral part of my life.  Back before your great Uncle Gene was born, great granddaddy Schaefer called a family meeting with Mamaw Mary, great Uncle Bryant, and me.  He declared that there were three things we could not afford…….braces, allergies and golf.  With that proclamation, he handed us tennis rackets and a can of balls.  “Here,” he said.  “This will last you a lifetime.”

Granddaddy was devoted to tennis.  He played a regular doubles match every Saturday and Sunday with his close friends Sweetie Sterling, Jack Ward and Bob Thomason.  Bob lived on Paris Mountain (which more accurately should be called Paris Hump), an elevated mound that overlooks Greenville from the north.  He had both a tennis court and swimming pool in his backyard.  For years, the four men enjoyed a consistent camaraderie that a game among friends provides .  Sometimes the tennis proved incidental to the bantering and harassment they dished out to each other. 

In the spring of 1963, to celebrate great Uncle Bryant’s graduation from high school, we took a trip with Sweetie and his family to one of the most elegant bastions of southern hospitality then and now - The Cloister in Sea Island, Georgia.  A pristine golf course wound its way through the moss-covered Water Oaks and stately accommodations of the resort.  Tucked into a cozy, secluded part of the property with an ivy-covered clubhouse was a first class tennis facility.  As soon as we checked in and settled into our rooms, granddaddy and Sweetie walked up to the pro shop to see if they could arrange a doubles match for the next day.  The tennis pro said he would be glad to put a game together and told them to be there at 9:00 the next morning.

They arose early and had a good breakfast.  Then, dressed in their finest tennis whites, granddaddy and Sweetie left for the courts.  Entering the pro shop, they looked around excitedly to see who might be their competition.  The only other people in the shop were two elderly gentlemen, probably in their eighties, chatting with the pro.  As they approached, the pro noticed and proceeded to introduce the octogenarians as the match up.  Granddaddy and Sweetie were polite, but somewhat disappointed.  Being in their forties, they had anticipated something a little more robust and challenging. 

The warm up lifted their spirits a little because the gentlemen seemed to be able to return the balls with some consistency.  They spun a racquet to determine who would serve first.  The other team won.  Granddaddy and Sweetie huddled at their baseline to talk a little strategy.  Normally, they enjoyed aggressive net play and they would start with that.  If it proved too overpowering and things became lopsided, they would back off and play the back court.

The first serve came into the service box on the forehand side where Granddaddy received.  He returned the serve deep into the opposite court and rushed forward to the net where Sweetie was already positioned on the backhand side.  They poised there, confident that if their opponents could reach the return, the response would be easy to handle. 

The ball did come back over….well over…well over their heads in the form of a lob perfectly placed a few inches inside the baseline.  Both men rushed back and somehow, Granddaddy got a racquet on the ball to keep the point alive.  That put them on the baseline, to whit the next response from their opponents was a delicately placed drop shot a couple of feet over the net.  Granddaddy and Sweetie rushed forward again, but to no avail.  The ball bounced a second time before they could get there.

This set the tone for the rest of the match.  The two elderly men literally never moved, they just placed the ball where the two younger bucks weren’t, moving them around the court like puppeteers manipulating marionettes.  When finally a blessed end came, Granddaddy and Sweetie returned to our rooms soaking wet, totally drained and forever humbled. 

Granddaddy did learn from the experience, however.  On many occasions later on, when he assumed the role of the elder statesmen and I was the younger, more agile opponent, he employed the same nasty, aggravating strategy with me. 

So you boys better beware.  No matter how good you might become at the wonderful game of tennis, Meemaw knows stuff……and I’ll be waiting on the other side of the net to show you.