I returned from the Wormgold wedding in Martha's Vineyard a refreshed (and admittedly, hungover) man, ready to live a leisurely August on the East End as any true Gent would. This meant dusting off my tennis whites and polishing my swimming routine in preparation for future competitions. You see, EtG is a great fan of the Summer Olympics, especially the Beijing Summer Olympics, for they showcase his favorite sports of them all: swimming, running, tennis, footie, and Ana Ivonovic... erm, I meant, tennis.
A fine sport indeedWhenever the Games are on, I find myself enraptured in the sporting mood, desiring to conquer all nationalities in games of tennis and/or discus. As my Chinese neighbors in the city are often confused by my challenge of a frisbee toss (I do not possess a proper discus), finding strong competition has been tricky. Luckily, last weekend proved to be the perfect opportunity to showcase my clay-court and aquatic skills, for my good mate Peter Lawson, the one-time Australian tennis prodigy, was staying with his lovely wife at a mate's house in nearby Amagansett. While preparing a BBQ on Friday night, we got talking about his old glory days as an emerging tennis talent and, afterwards, as a tennis pro. He said those days were long behind him as years of playing have reduced his left knee to nothing more than bone and some rubber bands. Sensing this as a fine opportunity to play - it was ruthless of me to challenge a cripple a match, I know - I asked Herr Lawson if he would like to stop by Chez Gent for a game of tennis on Saturday. Herr Lawson eagerly accepted the challenge, and we made plans to play at 3pm the following afternoon.
With my Round Hill Club tennis whites and taped wrists, I was as prepared for the match as I was dressed for it: quite ridiculously. Herr Lawson arrived to the court carrying three racquets that he rented from the neighborhood tennis shop, not to mention dressed in 3/4 pants and a stained white polo. I told him that in his capri pants (or "shpants", as they are neither shorts nor pants) he looked like he was prepared for a 4am rave in Ibiza, not for a tennis match. He laughed off the joke and suggested we begin rallying.
My strategy for this match, you see, was to move the ball as much as possible. As my foe was incapacitated by a gammy knee, he wouldn't be able to charge towards shallow shots or transition to opposite-court returns. Well, judging by that first rally we shared, the man would not have such concerns. His shots were unlike anything I have ever seen. He could stand in one place and put away any of his returns with a mere flick of the wrist. His strategy was not to engage in a hard-fought, long-drawn match. It was simply to put the ball away whenever he can. The infirmed are wise in their ways, I must admit.
We started our match and he won the first game with me returning his savage serve on one point, only to see him quickly put it away with a blistering backhand. Sadly, the rest of the match was to be like this. I ended up losing in 2 sets to the tune of 12 - 0. Not satisfied with my defeat, I suggested we join his wife at the Gent pool for a quick dip. I brought him a beer, and once he was finished with it, I said, "how about a quick swimming competition? To the end and back. Crawl stroke. What do you say?" Herr Lawson, the affable bloke that he is, laughed and accepted the challenge. With his wife serving as our referee, she called our start and we launched into the race, his 6'2 frame against my sturdy 5'9. The lanky bastard ended up beating me by a fair distance. Not pleased, I then challenged him to a backstroke race. Of course, he won that handily. I demanded we race in breast stroke. He won that handily as well.
I suppose like any Olympian, an athlete must be as gracious in defeat as he is in victory. I shook Peter's hand and told him that he was the toughest tennis player and swimmer that I had ever competed against.
The following day I paid him and his wife a visit at their host's home, where he was laid out on a pool chair with a large bag of ice propped on top of each knee. A half-drunk bottle of tequilla rested by his feet.
"How is your body holding up?" I asked the Aussie.
"Mate, my body is ruined. If your goal was to see me destroy my knees and back, well then, you've succeeded," Lawson replied.
Sadly, the Olympics do not award metals to those who cripple their competition (perhaps they will whenever Latvia hosts the games). However, if I were to give anyone a gold, it would be to Herr Lawson for his exceptional athletic talents. And I would get the silver for leaving the bastard in pain.
A presto,
EtG
