Both rackets were gathering dust in their respective
closets. I had bought a can of tennis balls and stashed them somewhere. I even
had some white shorts and appropriate shoes. She did as well.
Well hell, let’s go grab a bite and then give it a try. What
in the world could possibly go wrong with this picture? I was halfway to Wimbledon
just in the thinking of it.
We stopped in at a place that served salads and had a light
lunch. I was going to start this rehabilitation program out right. Wait until
our clients got a look at the new me. She just sort of stared at me with a
faint smile on her face.
After the meal, we rested a bit to, as my Sainted Mother
would say, “let our dinner settle.” Around mid-afternoon, we made it to a park
just past Mississippi Street and exited the Green Angel. One court was free,
and one was occupied by two familiar faces.
Oh no. It was Jason Rouby and a man named Armand … DeLauriel,
or something like that. They both knew my boss and here I was goofing off with
some hot little babe on a workday afternoon. Jason was the head of Metroplan,
the regional planning agency. He was the boss, so he could take off whenever he
pleased. Armand was, I think, Deputy Director of the state office of planning.
He could take off of a Friday afternoon too, if he wanted, for I’m sure he had
little to do. The State of Arkansas cared about planning as much as it cared
about labor unions.
Nothing to do but introduce them to Brenda. At least they
would be impressed with her. I did, and we moved to the empty court. They
resumed play. Both approached middle-age. Neither appeared very athletic.
Actually, we soon discovered that they were pretty good.
We weren’t. I opened the can of tennis balls. It made a soft
sound as I released the vacuum. I took one, laid the can aside, and tried to
bounce the ball on the ground. It got away from me and I had to chase it down.
She lined up on the opposite side of the net, and I tried to
knock the ball over to her. It hit the net and I had to chase it down. I wouldn’t
look across at the other court, but I could hear the thump of the ball being
sent and retuned.
I tried again. The ball sailed off to the right before it
got to the net. She gave me a look that said, “You hit it. You run it down.”
Eventually, I managed to hit one over the net. It surprised
her so much that she let it sail right by and she had to chase it down.
She knocked a couple into the net. I was beginning to
realize that we might well have been the two most unathletic people in the
state, another trait we shared. It was embarrassing. Then she sailed one over
the net, and it got worse.
I tried to pivot toward where I thought the ball might be.
My ankle gave way and a sharp pain shot through it. I ended up flat on the court.
What else could go wrong?
Jason and Armand helped get me to the car. Brenda gathered
our stuff, put it in the trunk, and drove us back to the apartment. She had no
trouble with the five-speed. During her life on the farm, she had learned to
drive every form of motorized equipment possible. In fact, she handled it
better than I, as anyone watching would have concluded.
Back at my apartment, she helped me hobble to a couch and
removed my shoes. There was no need to call for a doctor. Her mother worked for
the country doctor in Lonoke, and Brenda had filled in to help on occasion.
Additionally, they had shared many a conversation around the supper table. What
could a physician possibly know that she didn’t? Invalids were invalids, that’s
all.
“The best thing for a sprained ankle is to walk on it. I’ve
heard Doctor Holmes say that.”
“Embellishing my response with words and idioms from my Navy
life, I explained that I wasn’t going to do that, not yet anyway.
She had no recourse other that to use massage, 'poor Baby," and gentle
kisses as treatment.
Hey, this invalid stuff wasn’t so bad after all.
 |
| Wasn't gonna be any sports endorsements for me. |
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