But I Don’t Want To By Barbara Wyatt
t was wet, rainy, and cold. I did not want to go. The indoor tennis facility would be warm, but so was the comforter on my living room sofa at home. A heavy mug filled to the brim with hot cocoa, complete with white mini-marshmallows, would be in my hands. I could snuggle in and watch flames of orange, yellow, and indigo crackling in the fireplace. A ping jarred me. A glowing monitor stared back at me with a nonstop flow of work emails. As fast as the emails arrived, I answered and pushed send. It was Lucille Ball and Ethel Merman’s chocolate wrapping conveyer belt skit, upgraded to the twenty-first century with emails on a high-speed gigabit fiber internet service. Thirty minutes sped by; six more emails whipped down the fiber to the next recipient. The minutes on the digital timer clicked, edging closer to the final moment to register for that evening’s tennis drills. Only six spots left. Should I register and trudge off to tennis? I was tired. Another email sent. I checked again; only three open spots remained. An inner energetic voice said, “Go to tennis. It is good for you. You will see your friends. It will fill you with endorphins. Hit balls tonight.” I nodded, exuberant swings against yellow balls are good for the soul. A second raspy inner voice interrupted, “I placed the warm soft blanket on the couch for you. It’s folded and ready to be shaken and wrapped around you.” The voice continued,
I
“You’ve worked hard today. Forget tennis. Go another day. Rest, eat ice cream, watch tv.” I shook that voice out of my head and typed, “Register Me” for that evening’s drills class. With money on the table, I would not be swayed. I would attend. The second voice imploded and disappeared into silence. Class did not go well—in the beginning. Joints creaked and tight muscles slowed response time. The pro did not abandon hope; she fed balls continuously. My body, stiffened by hours sitting at a desk, became more subtle and flexible. In fifteen minutes, I
was a well-oiled athletic machine. The sweet spot of my racquet slammed balls over the net. I dominated her conveyer belt of tennis balls. At a rest break, my friend and teammate Karyn said, “I was so tired from work and didn’t want to come, so I registered. That forced to me to attend. I am SO glad I did.” She was right. Take Karyn’s and my advice. Go ahead. Push aside the day’s stress and all devious inner voices. Register for a drills class and pound at an endless feed of tennis balls, like the 1952 chocolate wrapping skit. Even when you don’t want to.
Barbara Wyatt is a Writer, Photographer, USTA Official, and Mobile App Developer of iKnowTennis!, the tennis rules app. Her poem, Ode to Tennis, an amusing poem on the joys and frustrations when learning tennis, is available at Amazon. She can be reached by email at BarbaraW@iKnowTennis.com
LITennisMag.com • May/June 2022 • Long Island Tennis Magazine
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