Racquetball- Or How I Became a Human Target

The difference between the words sweety and sweaty is one small letter, but the consequences of using them wrong is catastrophic.

I had just mass-emailed a letter to various members of my church intending to say in one of my statements, “My wife is a sweety.” It was my own fault for not proofreading before sending the statement which the predictive text feature changed to “My wife is sweaty.” The responses came back almost immediately.

“Look, I’m sorry!” I said, pleading for mercy from Cheryl. “I didn’t type that on purpose.”

“It makes no difference,” was her response.  “The damage is done. I’ll be hearing about this for a month!”

Back to the topic of racquetball.

When I was 19 and attending Western Washington State College, I decided to go the leisure route and get an easy grade learning handball. A handball is made of hard black rubber. It is 1 ⅞” in diameter and weighs between 1 ½ to 1 ¾ ounces. Padded gloves are worn on the hands to hit the ball and the ball can be hit with either hand.

To the beginning handball player, you will note that the gloves do very little to cushion the shock of the ball slamming into your palm and fingers. Three-quarters of the way through the college quarter, I still could not get my swollen monkey-hands into the front pockets of my 501 Levi jeans and after handball class, I found it nearly impossible to hold my pen to take notes in Geology 101.

It was with much interest that I watched the class of racquetball players which followed our handball class. These students could play for hours on end with no pain and the ball moved twice as fast. So, the next quarter I signed up for racquetball, another easy “A”.

The racquetball is made of a soft blue rubber. Its outside diameter is 2 ¼”, weighs 1.4 ounces and must bounce 72″ from a 100″ drop. It is not at all intimidating. You hold a short shaft racquet in your dominant hand to hit the ball. Speed and technique are learned the more you play the game. When the ball is in play, the exchanging hits between competitors can sometimes be less than two seconds apart. For this reason and the speed of the ball, safety glasses are worn for eye protection because it is not uncommon to be struck with the ball.

Silver Sneakers

Cheryl and I found a fitness club not far from our house. What initially attracted us to this club was that it was originally a YMCA. It has a pool and a large weight room as well as aerobic, dance, and yoga classes and, low and behold, a racquetball court. To put the frosting on the cake, our membership is free, paid for by the Silver Sneaker program because we are of Medicare age. Silver Sneakers is a perk and a reminder that the next stop in life is assisted living if we don’t stay healthy.

It was initially unfair. Cheryl didn’t have the training experience which I got in college. I knew how to read the ball and where it was going to bounce after hitting a wall. I knew all the trick serves to place the ball in areas of the court where she couldn’t return it. After I hit the ball, I knew where to move on the court to return her hit. The score was always lopsided. But, even though I stand a good 8″ taller, have double the arm reach and strength to hit the ball at lightning speeds, she has been getting better each week.

Now, I don’t know if she does this on purpose or by accident, but she tends to slam me on various parts of the body with the ball. After a week of playing Cheryl in racquetball, I look like I have just come from a cupping appointment with my massage therapist, and these are with some of her hardest hits too. Her explanation is: “Well you’re just too big and you were in the way. Where did you expect me to hit it?”

Once she slammed the ball behind my left ear and knocked my glasses right off my head. I’m beginning to think that I am not only an opponent, but I am a target. We might as well be having a paintball war.

And every time she slams the ball into my body, I hear her say, “Sorry!”

After 50 times, I’m beginning to not believe her.

We went to the club shortly after the whole email debacle. I had the feeling she might still be a bit miffed, so I decided to go easy on the serves to give her a chance. A half hour in, I had become too competitive and again ran my score way up. I could sense she was getting angry. And then I made the mistake of moving in front of her onto the sweet spot of the court. I waited for her to return the ball.

Suddenly, I felt the ball hit me in the back. It was a grand slam, out-of-the-ballpark, knock the wind out of your lungs hit. I fell forwards onto the deck. The blue ball rolled past my head. I turned and looked at Cheryl.

“Sorry,” she said.

The difference between the words sweety and sweaty is one small letter, but the consequences of using them wrong is catastrophic.

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