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.

I can’t sleep.  I keep imagining myself pulling off a forward half-twist.  I approach the end of the board in my slightly too large Speedo with four wide confident steps.  I’ve done this before, so I don’t rush the last step, sinking into the board with my left leg and pressing down long enough to allow the natural rhythm of the board to rebound me up into a solid hurdle.  My arms, already held straight up above my body, swoop as I descend back to the board, and swing down like an eagle picking up its prey as I bounce back onto the board, and I pause long enough with a perfectly straight torso to allow the board to kick me off with its full force into upward flight.  As I leave the board, facing forward, but not bent, I bring my left arm out in front of me, pointing it toward the far end of the pool, while my right arm is held stiffly toward toward the ceiling.  I gaze down my arm and stare at my left hand. My torso begins to twist, and before I know what is happening I am sailing through the air on the upward half of a perfect arch.  Just as I reach the apex of my dive, and gravity has started to pull me back down, I let myself go.  My right arm meets the left straight out above my head, whichever that direction is. I give in.  There is nothing more I can do, and my trust in gravity’s ability to pull me down is all I have.  I am probably staring at the ceiling, or the far wall, but my brain can’t make sense of this upside-down world.   I straighten out my arms and legs and hope for the best.  For what seems like seconds, I am sailing through the air head-first and backwards.  I feel the water beginning to engulf my head, and I hold my legs straight long enough to enter the water, while beginning to bend my waist and flip around underwater.

My neck hurts