An Old Man's Game

THAT men often drop dead on the golf links is a matter of record, and — for the deceased — a matter of experience, too. Golf is a strenuous game for an elderly citizen, especially if he insists on starting out right after breakfast and playing thirty-six holes without stopping. Such concentration is required of the player that a ‘foozled’ shot may easily induce an outbreak of temper dangerous to the entire system. No wonder the doctors advise against golf for anyone over fifty!

But nobody ever heard of a man, young, middle-aged, or elderly, dropping dead on a tennis court. For tennis is an old man’s game if the old man exercises judgment and understanding. Speed he may not possess, but craft and cunning, born of experience, are at — and sometimes in — his service. Your oldster’s business is to watch his opponent, and to put the ball where he is not; and as to receiving, why, all he has to do is to recall the counsel of the famed Doherty brothers, published many years ago: ascertain to what point in the court his opponent is likely to return the ball, go there, and wait quietly for it.

‘Quietly’ — what a wealth of wisdom in that word! I know a man who plays — or tries to play — the ‘quiet’ game, and I happen also to know the opinion on the result expressed by the neighbor’s cook, who looks on from her kitchen window. ‘I like to see that old man stand in the middle of the court,’ says Angelina, ‘and keep the young folks on the run.’

It is astonishing how much room there is in your antagonist’s court when you know how to look for it. Here he comes, careering for the net. All you have to do is to put that ball past him, down his alley, or out of reach across his forehand. Or, if you like, you can gently toss it high over his head, so that it falls just inside the base line. Or, if he is back, you can storm the net yourself and finish up the point with a smash to the corner. But I forget: you are elderly — not to say old — and had better save your energy by playing a backcourt game. One of the largest collections of tennis cups I ever knew of belonged to a player who rarely if ever came up to the net.

But, after all, you’d better not play singles. The singles game will arouse your competitive spirit, which you’ve got to tame if you’re getting on; and, besides, it may even tire you out, which is distinctly bad for a sexagenarian. Better submerge the ‘will to win.’ Play doubles, and do it for fun. Cheer for your partner whenever he makes a shot, deride the attempts of the players on the other side of the net, cultivate, to mask your cunning, the ‘conversational game.’ Gaze down the alley of the opposing net player until he moves over to protect it; then, on return of service, lob it high over his head or shoot it across his forehand at an unplayable angle, to the accompaniment of an exultant yell. On your own serve, take an occasional shot at the centre line, and give a whoop whenever — if ever — you score an ace thereby. And don’t forget to applaud all the good shots from the other side, as a generous contender should do.

I have spoken of the danger of outbreaks of temper incurred by playing golf. Nothing of the sort exists in tennis, as played by men of mature age and discretion. No elderly gentleman has ever been known to hurl his racket at the net upon missing a shot, as younger players used sometimes to do, or to burst a blood vessel in rage over a lost game. There are short, explosive words — words which, as Emerson says somewhere in his Journal, hit you like a bullet and ought to be available for parlor use — which effectually release any amount of pent-up feeling, and which may be uttered without a bit of emotional strain. But why get mad anyway?

Tennis (played for fun) is a game which you can drop out of when you have had enough — therein differing from golf, which may easily run the old man off his legs in eighteen holes. If your strokes begin to slow up, or your legs to lag, it means ‘ stop.’ It’s a gentleman’s game, and all you have to do, in case of need, is to remark to your partner that you’re getting a bit stale and had better lay off. He will see his duty at once, and the members of the other team will see theirs. Somebody on the clubhouse piazza will doubtless be glad to take your place, or it may be that the whole four of you have had enough tennis for the day. Two sets — or three at most — should satisfy the cravings of tennisites past sixty. To the showers with you all!

But when you’ve followed so royal a sport all your life, from schoolboy days, is n’t it hard to realize that in the eyes of the rising generation you’re a ‘back number’? You watch a match at your club, and say to yourself every now and then, ‘I could have made that shot better myself,’ forgetting that there is such a thing as ‘pace’ on a tennis ball nowadays. You did n’t know about that when you were young; and, very likely, that shot which looked so soft from your remote spectator’s seat would have turned your weak wrist or knocked your loosely held racket around. And, if you still persist in your unreasoning pride, just wait until you stroll over to the club courts some day and hear somebody say (not intending you to hear), ' Here comes that old duffer again; suppose we’ll have to give him a game! ’ If that does n’t put you in your place, I give you up.