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Tom Germond
Tear down the *#%*# courts
Article published on Tuesday, Aug. 19, 2008 |
The employees at the front desk of the recreation complex probably don’t get too many requests to borrow a sledge hammer.
I asked for it politely.
“I don’t think we have one of those, sir,” he said.
They should. Because they don’t know when a vindictive Visgoth like myself hell-bent on sacking something will want to take his temper out on a racquetball court.
Since the city of Largo had decided months ago to get rid of the two courts at the Southwest Recreation Complex, I thought I’d help them out.
“I wish they’d tear down these *#%*# stinkin’ courts tonight,” I said about a week ago. “It will put me out of my misery.”
And Randy and I have been saying something like that for months, though I have the edge in profanity.
Just glad my Mom hasn’t watched me play. She’d cram a bar of soap in my mouth – or a racquetball.
Randy and I have complained out loud about the rough cement surface, the sun glaring off the front wall, dirt on the courts, wall plates, the door, the wind, the city – you name it.
Racquetball Larry never complains; that’s because he beats us all the time – and makes fun of us whining.
“I hate this *#%*# game,” I said the other day. “Stinkin’ courts – balls bounce all over the place.”
That was after getting drubbed by about 15-2. Even with a new war club, my game was nothing more than a turkey shoot for Larry.
“Why don’t I just put a parachute on the *#%*# ball,” I said.
Not every racquetball player has to endure grass growing on the courts, dead birds, wasp nests and large masonry cracks. This ain’t The Trop.
But I’ve played this game for 20 years, and that’s the way it’s been on half the places where I play.
Years ago, in Kissimmee, I sparred with a friend named “Cooter,” whose lifelong ambition was to play every afternoon of the week, weather permitting – or not.
So determined was Cooter to play that one day after a typical Florida afternoon thunderstorm, he started digging a trench in the grass around the exterior of the outdoor courts. He was trying to make them drain better.
No, Cooter wasn’t an engineer.
And there was the legendary Bear. As big as Bear was, he was lightning quick. One time, after I thought I made a brilliant shot in the corner, he was on my heels, making a great return.
Then he’d chide me, mimicking Gen. George Patton.
“Rommel, you magnificent b.....d, I read your book,” he said.
I hate Bear.
But, at the age of 54, even after two knee injuries, recurring tendentious and other physical injuries that would render my skeleton useless for even a Halloween display, I’m determined to continue playing this sport.
The last Visgoth will not die easily.
Can’t blame the city of Largo for getting rid of the courts, though. I bet less than a handful of residents even play the game there.
“Do you have any dynamite?” I asked a recreation supervisor.
An implosion would make for a great photo.
Not sure where I’m going to play next. Can’t picture myself in one of those fufu health clubs. Too many mirrors.
As I bid farewell to Racquetball Larry and Randy, I told them I’d check out the city of Seminole’s courts.
“Wait’ll they get a load of me,” I said.
Still, I have reservations about this idea. Seminole’s courts are designed for good players. I’m getting too old to get clubbed like marine life. With knees about as agile as the Tinman’s, I’m sure I’ll be quite a spectacle for anybody watching me play. Maybe it’s time I tried something less strenuous – like a Cracker Barrel rocking chair.
The good news is, unlike the outdoor torture chamber at the Southwest Recreation Complex, Seminole’s courts are indoors and are air-conditioned.
Fortunately, the window in the court door is almost too small for people to see me.
I just hope they can’t hear me.
Tom Germond is executive editor of Tampa Bay Newspapers.
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Article published on Tuesday, Aug. 19, 2008
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Tampa Bay Newspapers
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Seminole, FL 33772
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