Life and Death in Austin, Texas

Listened to the new Ash Barty biography while driving eight hours to Austin. She hated traveling to tournaments. That’s why she quit tennis as a top junior prospect. That’s why she quit the second time when she was just 25 and the #1 player in the world. Only one in a million would do that. The one thing I love about driving to tournaments is I can listen to Ash Barty describe how much she hates to travel to tournaments. I smile and laugh alone in the car. Six more hours through Oklahoma and Texas. One of Ash Barty’s breakthroughs is when she finally learned to respect her opponents: their tennis games, their life stories, their dreams, their demons.  I vow to do the same in Austin.

My first opponent, Tim Perry, keeps checking his watch between points. I see that a lot now, know everyone’s checking their pulse rate. The tennis court’s one of the best places to die, but none of us in the over 65 division is in love with “rush.” “Rush” death, no. “Rush” life, no. Man, that was a “rush,” hardly ever. If someone’s checking their pulse, especially if they are sucking air, I know what I need to do. Run them even more, extend the points. Try to take out their lungs, their legs. In tennis that’s called respect.

After the match, Tim apologized for taking some extra time between points. He said he had problems with burping and catching his breath after a triple bypass operation a little more than a year ago. Was running a half marathon when the elephants started running across his chest. “That’s one of the signs, those elephants,” he said. He held my gaze for a moment.  “I’ll remember that,” I said. Tim quickly learned his three main arteries were blocked at 100 percent, 90 percent, and 80 percent. A heart attack or stroke about to happen. Triple bypass surgery within two days as necessary, preventative medicine. Lucky, lucky, he says. No stroke or heart attack. Recovery’s much quicker.

He told me what I knew about how tennis was the best single sport for prolonging life.  Happiness, too, I added. Endorphins, camaraderie, the joy of hitting a ball and chasing it down. It was my happiest moment the entire weekend. Not winning so much (though winning makes me happy and losing temporarily suicidal), but recognizing, and respecting, what another human being had just been through: everyman’s encounter with death. In my early years teaching college, I taught the famous play Everyman almost every year. Everyman meets death unexpectedly and seeks someone to accompany him on his journey: his friends, his family, his worldly goods. They all abandon him. His wit, his strength, life’s beauty. They all abandon him, too. Only his good deeds can accompany him, but his good deeds are so weak they can hardly get up off the floor. A college education should be as morally challenging as growing old.

I told Tim I knew about the burping. Shared that my wife had passed away two years ago. Four years before that she had a full lung removed, causing her to burp longer and louder and more outrageously than any bodily sounds I had ever encountered. We avoided the public eye and ear while we began our work in private.  While on supplemental oxygen 24/7, Jacque walked down the hall and back once a day for a week. Then all the way through the bedroom and back for a week. Then two times to the bedroom and back for a week. Then 3 times. Then 4. Then 5. Then 6. Then once around the block two months in. Another week passes. Then twice around the block. Then 3. Then. 4. “Let’s take the Anne walk,” I ventured. About a half mile through our neighborhood down to Anne Street and back. Anne is our second daughter’s name. We gave birth to Anne when Jacque was forty-two. We start all over without oxygen. 30 seconds of walking for a week. 60 seconds of walking for a week. 90 seconds of walking for a week. Suddenly, one day, Jacque proclaimed she would return to work. She never needed oxygen again.

In the Sunday final I played Bill Spence. Before the match we talked a little. He learned I was retired. I learned he now worked “harder than he ever had” for Channel 2 News in Houston. He loved it, too. I imagined he loved everything he did with the passion of youth. I checked out the Channel 2 website later, learned he was an “Emmy-winning investigative reporter,” “an insanely competitive tennis player,” and “a crazy rock and roll drummer (John Bonham is his hero.)”  “Stand up for the crazy,” Walt Whitman said. A phrase I’ve always lived by. What I admired most about Bill was how consistently competitive, or consistently crazy, he was. Things were not going his way, but he never gave up the fight. I was hitting heavy slices and wicked drop shots all over the place with a nasty wind that kept picking up all match. In between each point, he practiced hitting two shadow forehands and two shadow backhands. No matter what happened, he completely reset and threw everything he had into playing the next point. That’s how I want to do life. Next time I’m in Houston, I will check out his stories on the evening news.

I bumped into Tim Perry after taking the picture above with Bill. After losing to me in the first round, Tim had won the consolations. Always a great feeling if you lose to the person who then wins the tournament. It removes some of the sting. It means you played well, something we all care about. We both smiled broadly, shook hands. Can you become close friends in just two hours on a tennis court? Maybe I’m not as alone as I think.

To see some great pics of Bill Spence and learn more about his work for Houston 2 News, see their website.

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