It’s tennis & diving season again. Diving class consists of 4 young skinny asian girls, a tall latin american boy, me, and Yasuo, the prestigious fine art framer. Yasuo doesn’t commune with the beginners, preferring to do his own thing on another board. I bide my time waiting patiently for my turn amongst the newbies. Our instructor, C, is good with details. He was impressed with my retention of diving prowess. Besides Yasuo, who is a great diver, I am the only one who can perform a dive. But C gives plenty of constructive criticism, often mimicking the ridiculous gesticulations of the divers with good humor.
Tennis is a different story. A, the buxom young instructor, doesn’t mess around. The 7 women and I run drills, returning balls, rallying with each other, and practicing volleys. The two oldest women – a fiery 60-somethinger and a middle aged latina – joked about having to compete for me as a hitting partner. An oversized and middle-aged administrator at the university stated matter-of-factly that I would hit with her since the two best hitters had already had me. Later, the administrator questioned the integrity of my racquet, based on the sound made when hitting. Towards the end, we practiced serves, with little guidance.











