Concrete Elbow by Steve Tignor - Playing Ball: Down the Shore

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Playing Ball: Down the Shore	07/21/2009 - 1:39 PM

With nothing earth-shattering, or even earth-nudging, going on in the professional game at the moment—the hard-court season takes a few weeks just to get into first gear—it seems an appropriate time to catch up on two other traditional summer pastimes: an afternoon of baseball and a couple of days at the beach. On Wednesday I’m going to see the (world champion) Philadelphia Phillies play the Cubs, and after that I’m heading for the Jersey Shore—"going down the shore," as they say—for a mini-family vacation.

Our beach town of choice has always been Ocean City, an alcohol-free, family-oriented little hamlet that explodes over the summer months, when something like 200,000 people jam themselves within 100 yards of the Atlantic. My grandparents, who lived in the Philadelphia suburbs, owned a house there. Our family visited for a week each August when I was a kid. From what I’ve heard, this is where I was first bitten by the tennis bug. My grandmother liked to tell the story of a week I spent there with her and my grandfather, a devotee of the sport, when I was 5. He took out me out to the town’s public courts the first day, and I guess they couldn’t get the racquet away from me the rest of the week. I would walk out of my bedroom with it in the morning.

What I do remember of vacations in Ocean City is a sense of time slowing down and becoming hazily elastic. I was young enough then to savor the art of doing nothing for hours. I’ve never recaptured that feeling as an adult, even when I’m on vacation. I may spend an entire day sitting on the beach, but to enjoy it I have to rationalize that time as somehow productive—there will be only so many more opportunities to spend an uninterrupted afternoon with a Trollope novel, so I better make the most of them.

I’ve heard that our experience of time speeds up as we get older; or maybe the past elongates in our minds when we remember it, because we experience those moments so much more intensely as kids. Either way, the lion’s share of my day in Ocean City could be profitably spent on the couch in my grandmother’s small, hot TV room playing Sorry!; watching an entire Phillies game, sans DVR or even remote control; winning a checkers marathon; losing in APBA baseball, a primitive and highly addictive fantasy board game, to a family friend; reading Bridge Over the River Kwai or Tom Sawyer; or just lying there staring blankly out the window at the town’s big blue water tank through the murky humid air. (The bigger South Jersey shore towns have water towers with their names emblazoned across them. Legend had it that a friend’s heavy-partying older brother, after a summer spent in Stone Harbor, climbed the tower there and spray-painted a “D” at the end of the first word.) Doing nothing then really meant doing nothing, without a thought to the future.

Outside of that back room, Ocean City, an island three blocks wide and hundreds of blocks long, spreads out along the shoreline in both directions. At our end, the newer end, each block was (and still is) stuffed with a dizzying number of duplexes. To drive toward the other end is to go back in time. Halfway down, the grand old single-family beach houses begin, including, most famously, the brilliantly white mini-mansion where Grace Kelly spent her summers. At the other end is the boardwalk, equally grand in its own way, a timeless mess of pizza, cotton candy, air hockey, neon-signed motels, Kohr’s soft ice cream, miniature golf, ferris wheels, and the assorted humanity of the Mid-Atlantic flaunting its newly tan skin, for better and for worse. Little has changed here in the last 30 years, but skin wasn't always in. My grandmother loved to recall the 1920s boardwalk, when people dressed up, in slacks, dresses, jackets, and hats, for the customary evening stroll.

Near the center of the island, land-locked and hot as hell, are the tennis courts. They were as chaotic as the rest of the town when I was a kid. When we could get a court, which wasn’t easy, I left the beach and saw my horizons instantly narrow. Here, rather than looking out at the wide vista of the ocean, I stared down at the small patch of asphalt in front of me as I walked slowly back to collect a ball at the fence. I moved to my own rhythm between points, my forehead dripping sweat that I enjoyed not wiping off. I blocked out all sensory stimulation other than the sound of the ball and my own huffing and puffing. When you practice seriously for a long time, your opponent tends to fade away and the rhythm of your breathing becomes your companion. You play to the deliberate and purposeful cadence of concentration, of practice, of trying to do something better. Again, when I hit balls at the shore, time slowed down. But unlike those lost hours of indolence in my grandmother’s house, I can still create the same quiet, solitary feeling on a court today. Maybe it’s because it reminds me of playing the sport as a kid, but I still love staring down in front of me and hearing only my breathing as I walk toward the back fence to pick up a ball. If nothing else, tennis teaches us to love concentrating.

I first tried serving in Ocean City and failed miserably. It was a lot of body parts to coordinate, and I can remember the panic of throwing the ball up and knowing that I wasn’t going to hit it anywhere near the service box. Later, as a teenager, I would practice with a junior rival who was vacationing in a nearby town. I also spent one of those weeks reading a tennis novel—these existed in the 70s—called World Class, a veiled fictional portrait of the first group of professionals. The quest of its protagonist, the young American Christopher Hill, to become the greatest player of all time, was inspiring.

That quest is long over for me. I probably won’t play tennis in Ocean City this year—it’s supposed to rain, which might mean another marathon of Sorry! and more Trollope than I bargained for. And I certainly won't play a tennis tournament, which is what I did one year at the shore. My dad drove me to a 14-and-under event in Willingboro, N.J., where I lost to a tiny, cocky human backboard 6-1, 6-1. I rode back to Ocean City under a cloud of gloom; the day was ruined. Now I wonder: What would have prompted a kid to voluntarily leave the shore to compete against another kid he didn’t know 100 miles away in blistering August heat? There can be only one reason: To win, and to experience the feeling you get when you win. There was nothing like it then, and there’s nothing like it now. But just like my ability to enjoy staring at a water tank, I’ve lost the desire to compete seriously at tennis, in tournaments, against people I’ve never met. I get enough competition in my work life and even social life. I still love to play matches against friends and fellow club members—that I can experience the relief and happiness that come with winning, even in these pick-up games, is proof of how powerfully satisfying that feeling is. But anything more official than that, any sense that a match I'm playing really matters, begins to make tennis feel like another quintessential feature of youth: a test. I’ve taken enough of those in my life, on court and off. It’s nice to leave some things in the past. It’s nice just to go to the beach.

19
Comments

Posted by Paula V.

07/21/2009 at 02:10 PM

Steve...Great to get to know you through your writing. It's very true that childhood experiences mold you into the adult that you become, for better or for worse.

I played a lot of "Sorry" myself during the summers of my youth, in between trips to the beach, cookouts, swim-meets, and epic tennis battles with my older sister that kept going long after the sun went down. And when I step onto a tennis court these days, I revert right back to age 12.

Posted by charles

07/21/2009 at 03:06 PM

Steve,
I'm a little disappointed to hear you don't like to compete anymore... Yes tennis is fun and beautiful and an elegant physical artform, but so much of the game is the mental struggle to focus and concentrate and live completely in the moment. The higher the stakes, the more zen-like the concentration required. What greater reward is there than in the midst of a tumultous and dramatic match, punctuated by short sprints and wild gets, to find oneself in a state of absoulte calm - hearing one's breathing as evidence of tranquility in the tempest...

Tennis is a brutal meritocracy, the antithesis of peace in many ways, yet to play well, one most concentrate in absolute calm... and the reward for this unmoving vortex-centre is heightened by the match intensity or apparent chaos.

so is my opinion... I feel I may have sold yours short... because I sense your desire for the beauty of the art form...

Posted by TennisFan2

07/21/2009 at 03:16 PM

"It’s nice to leave some things in the past. It’s nice just to go to the beach." Best two lines of the post Steve!

Best time on the beach: after 4pm when the crowds leave and you can read or play with the whole beach to yourself! Sometimes we wait to go until this time - everyone is leaving while we are coming in with our coolers, chairs and toys.

If it's going to rain try Sequence - boring white box with a great game inside! My husband added a new twist to start the game (you have to bounce or flick your chip onto the designated spot on the board - your hand can't cross the game board in the process and you can knock your opponents chips out of the way - it's almost as much fun as the actual game. The person that wins goes first).

Posted by Chris De Tone	07/21/2009 at 03:24 PM
Another great piece...I love reading your stuff. I can relate to this one very well. I spent many summers at my Dad's place in Point Pleasant, NJ. Your writing has a great way of taking me back again. Great stories. I look forward to your next piece. Thanks.

Posted by tdawg	07/21/2009 at 03:32 PM
trollope? mega-geek details like this make your posts so endearing to me.

Posted by PC

07/21/2009 at 04:05 PM

Growing up in Jersey, I spent a fair amount of my youth and teen years at the Jersey shore. There's nothing quite like it. I took the waves for granted and was stunned when I first visited the famed "Cape Cod". No waves. It was like a lake.

In the summer, in the evening, my mom used to play tennis against a friend at the middle school near our house. I'd go with her and hit balls against the side of the brick school. Hot, sultry, Jersey summer nights. Just me and a ball and a collosal brick wall. That memory still burns.

Posted by Emma (insertwittymantrahere)	07/21/2009 at 08:14 PM
"trollope? mega-geek details like this make your posts so endearing to me." - word tdawg. Steve, your posts are always so enjoyable, thanks so much. And tdawg is right on the money, the details you add are always adorkable.

Posted by skip1515

07/21/2009 at 09:59 PM

A classic component of summer tennis in this part of the world: the Harvey Lakes tournament at the Ocean City 6th St. courts. (Why was the tournament named that, anyway?)

Steve, I really expected to find you saying that you'd first tried to serve down the shore but couldn't get the toss to stay in one place because of the wind.

I spent a week reading a Trollope novel one afternoon.

Posted by Aussiemarg Madame President finally comes out of rehab and rejoices in Vamos Forever

07/22/2009 at 06:23 AM

Pete Well living in Sydney I dont have to go far to the beach.

yes I have been spoilt.Nothing beats the sound of the waves and water to me is relaing.

Even after a day on the tennis courts in Summer to go for a dip in the sea is a reward indeed.

Thanks for sharing your early child hood expierence.

Ocean City does have a special ring to it.

Posted by ACS

07/22/2009 at 09:11 AM

I totally understand Steve's relutance to compete in tournament play anymore. For me, the legal world is competitive enough, and family life with kids moves at a breakneck pace. Thus, the last thing I need at the end of the day is life and death competition on the courts.

As someone who played in tournaments through their junior years, played competitive basketball through college, and then adult tournaments and mens' leagues when young and working, the last thing I now want out of either sport is to continually prove myself through wins and losses. I've done that for thrity years and I've had my fill.

Like Steve, I enjoy playing sets or pick-up ball with friends of like ability. More than that even, I enjoy just hitting with someone else or shooting baskets on my own in an empty gym. There is something so simple and pure in those actions, the sports stripped down to their most humble satisfactions. It's how I came to love them in the first instance, and now it's come full circle, as I realize it's how I love them best. It has made me realize that (at least at my stage) sport is not about achievement, but about finding joy in simple execution.

Posted by Vishal	07/22/2009 at 11:35 AM
Dear Steve, If yesterday's post (on excuses) was a very interesting and fun-filled read, this one is a HEARTFELT. I must congratulate you on the superb post. (i found it a fantastic writing on par with the best ones i have read). I certainly would look forwrad to such gems in between the regulars.

Posted by charles	07/22/2009 at 06:19 PM
Thanks for that description ACS - soulful and descriptive... I suppose it boils down to whether or not competition becomes mentally distracting... maybe I'm just not that competitive in my mindset so not getting that part of it... basically I agree, the sheer joy of hitting the ball in an undistracted state is SO rewarding.

Posted by Slice-n-Dice

07/22/2009 at 11:08 PM

Beautifully conceived... but I have just one nagging question:

Does this mean you're gonna "duck" me when I arrive in NYC on a Thursday or Friday and call you on your cell and ask for a match?!

I confess, too, to enjoying the weekend wins against friends almost as much as the tournament wins, which due to time limitations and my new parenting arrangement are quickly becoming a thing of the past.

And having spent three to four years of my youth in northern Jersey, I recal those hazy, lazy days at the shore. Now that I'm in North Carolna, I don't think I've ever heard a native refer to the coastal dunes as "the shore" -- it's "the beach" here. And after a few strolls along our beaches, one might even begin to believe that the term "beach babe" originated here.

But to me, tennis at the beach is a very strange activity. It has never really felt llike tennis to me. Often the courts are not well maintained, the fences in disrepair, the nets tattered and torn, or sagging, and the sand and wind and intense sun make any thoughts of playing seriously seem laughable.

No, as much a tennis bum as I am, I think it's far better to head to the beach with a good book and a frisbee instead of a racquet.

Posted by susi

07/23/2009 at 12:55 PM

I'm a dedicated Tennis lurker, but as a Jersey girl I had to delurk just for a minute to let you know how much I enjoy your writing in general, and this piece in particular. I spent plenty of days "down the shore", and of course, I'm a tennis fanatic, so your childhood memories echoed mine in many ways.

ACS -- my favorite tennis activity is still just hitting/working on my game with a friend. As a USTA league player, that kind of tennis is the hardest to fit into my schedule and what I miss the most. (And probably limits my improvement as well!)

Posted by Well Left	07/24/2009 at 12:17 PM
Competition in your social life? Got an announcement to make or something? That's when the real competition starts, bro. Thanks for a typically great post, Steve.

Posted by susan

07/24/2009 at 01:33 PM

i just read this poem by brenda shaughnessy. didn't know about her until now. i'll have to think about this one.

Three Summers Mark Only Two Years

No wonder time is so mistaken.
Three summers like any other three summers:
aren't they long and dayful
with traintrips to the sea edge
and free legs? Why do we only get two
years in exchange for three summers?
A full year stolen by mosquitoes.
Like a club sandwich, we need an extra
summer to separate year of bacon
from year of turkey. Like a lot of hard
work taxed a full third. I'll gladly
suffer in a stolen year, make it a year
of sweaty nights alone in a cube
and days in a cubicle,
time spent to buy time. I'll take
a year of that. Just give it back to me.

Posted by Azhdaja

07/25/2009 at 12:51 PM

very, very interesting prediction here:

http://arguenow.net/forum/index.php?topic=326.0;topicseen

:-)

true or not true?

Posted by Bobcat	07/26/2009 at 08:11 PM
Thanks Steve very nice insight. I played a match with an unknown opponent yesterday and I showed up like it was a job interview instead of the joy of finding my own body rhythms and exercise it was truly supposed to be.

Posted by kendalh	07/27/2009 at 05:47 PM
Steve I loved APBA as a kid! playing the 1906 Cubs vs 1927 Yanks!

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Playing Ball: Excuses, Excuses >>

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Laughing to Keep from Crying
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