Never Underestimate

If it's cloudy after work again, I'm not going to do it, I said to no one in particular. Well, it was (cloudy, I mean) and I did it anyway. Of course. I went through the process of getting the mtb ready - clamped the rack with basket attached to the seatpost, secured the hopper into the basket, wedged the tennis shoes in, put some air in the troublesome rear tire, and rode down to the Pauley Courts at Pomona College. I was glad I did.

 It was worthwhile, and proved to be more interesting than expected. Expected - I had expected to serve a couple hoppers full of balls then head home. Unexpected was the little, dare I say "old" man who, I sidewise glanced to notice, seemed to be checking one of the trash receptacles outside the fence. Homeless? I assumed and went back to serving. A few serves later I detected the gate latch and sidewise glanced to notice the same man walk through and onto "my" court. The gate closed again, the latch dropping into place. The man walked over to the other of the two benches that I was not using and sat down. The two players on the next court over watched with some degree of curiosity then went back to playing. The man sat down, and I went back to serving. Interesting, I thought; not the first time someone, a stranger, had sat down to watch me serve, but absolutely the first time someone, a stranger, had sat down on my court to watch. 

I don't think his eyes ever turned away, certainly every time I looked over at him, he was looking at me. It was like he wanted something, but didn't know how to ask or, perhaps, expected me to say something. Digging out the last two balls from the hopper and sending them over the net; the stranger was standing when I had finished collecting them back into the hopper. And 

he was holding a racquet that he had, apparently, pulled out of a plastic shopping bag (a racquet I had not noticed earlier) and gesturing to the other side of the court. Surmising that he did not speak English I, never-the-less, asked him (in English) if he wanted to return serve. He seemed to get the idea, and was happy enough to hurry over and set himself up at the net. He volleyed a few balls with force before moving back and setting himself upon the baseline. We rallied the remaining balls one after another. For an "old guy," he could hit. He wasn't much for running down a ball, so I could hit short angle shots past him, or straight down the sideline, but as long as I hit back to him, the ball would come back over the net to me. I don't know who he was, but I sure would like to have seen him play thirty, forty years earlier. 

Finally being able to hit with someone other than the mrs. was exhilarating, and I tried to ask if he came by the courts often. He didn't know what I was saying. As he was getting ready to leave, later, he showed me his racquet; it was kind of worn, through use I guessed, not neglect, with a unique stringing job. He said something about perro, and I thought maybe his dog had been chewing on his racquet. Pero no, I thought, the word just sounded the same and whatever he said, it didn't have anything to do with a dog.

Never underestimate an old guy with a racquet. Within a mater of minutes, this old guy went from an unhoused person to someone I could play tennis against. Until the next time, who ever you are, ride on, rally one...