I could hear Owen’s voice as I got ready. Grip, stance, headspace... I moved into position, drew back my paddle, and—
“Score,” Theresa scolded me. “You have to say the score!”
I cringed at my rookie mistake. “Right, sorry!”
“It’s okay,” Howard assured me.
My palms got a little sweatier.
“Uh.” My voice cracked. “Zero, zero, start.”
I took a deep breath and shifted my weight back and forth.
“You only have ten seconds to serve after you call the score,” Mark said. “You shouldknowthat.”
“Okay, right. Zero, zero, start,” I repeated. I dropped the ball and managed a perfectly clean shot across the net and into the right side of the court. Owen always did a growly “yessss”whenever I performed well and I half expected to hear it after my gorgeous inaugural serve. I started jogging to the kitchen line.
“Hold up,” Howard coached from behind me, still glued to the baseline. “Serve and stay, serve and stay.”
I ran backward—another rookie mistake that Owen would lecture me about if he’d seen it—and got into position beside Howard at the line.
Mark bombed the ball back and directly to me, which was great strategy since I was the weakest link on the court. I ran to it and returned my own bomb that cleared the net and promptly flew out-of-bounds.
“That’s okay,” Howard said with a nod. He walked closer to me. “Mark likes to hit the hell outta the ball, but those bangers really wear him out. Our best bet is to play at the kitchen line. It’s easier for me”—he pointed to his bad knee—“plus hehatesit when I snatch ’em out of the air and drive ’em down the middle.”
“Got it,” I said with a nod.
For the next eighteen minutes, I tried to put every lesson I’d learned into play. I served, returned, dinked, and sweated alongside Howard and wound up failing him.
“Ten, two, one,” Mark said as he served the shot that put us out of our misery.
Game over, an obliterating defeat.
Both teams walked to the net to touch paddles, and I could’ve sworn Theresa was gloating despite my beginner status.
But I’d done it! We’d lost, but I still felt like a winner for surviving my first real game.
“Anyone have time for another?” I asked, glancing around at them.
Even though I didn’t love the idea of facing Team Tan again, I’d carved out an hour to play and I intended to use every minute of it.
Mark chuckled. “What are you, a glutton for punishment?”
“Oh, stop,” Howard scolded gently. “I saw some really great stuff out there. And I missed a bunch of shots, so it’s not all Brooke’s fault. Let’s go again.”
Mark and Theresa reluctantly agreed, and when I returned Theresa’s serve so perfectly that they both whiffed it, the vibe on the court shifted.
Nowwe were playing.
Howard had a bunch of tricks up his sleeve, including a backspin that Mark missed every time. But I actually managed to hold my own. I found my rhythm, even though I still had to occasionally chant “just push” to keep from hitting the ball out-of-bounds. I wasn’t in my head; my focus was on the game and my teammate.
We won game two.Andgame three.
When we tapped paddles I did a little scrunch-nose smile at Theresa that I hoped telegraphed “sorry you lost; don’t youdareunderestimate me” to her.
“I need to call it a day, my friends,” Howard said. “Brooke, phenomenal job. I hope we get to play again soon. I’m here most mornings at this time.”
I wanted to ask for his number, or since he was clearly over seventy, get his Facebook handle, but I wasn’t sure if it would be weird.
