*Disclaimer: there will be absolutely no instances of high heels on tennis courts in this post. But there will be drinking on the courts. Exhale and carry on.
10+ years off the court each. Slippery grips, bruised egos, rusty forehands. A girl with a ferocious competitive spirit—famous for making the smallest of situations a battle to the death—pitted against the most encouraging, patient, good-natured boy on earth.
A recipe for disaster? Broken strings, shattered rackets, bite marks?
Nah. C+C is a pretty mellow operation. We took it to the courts for horizon-broadening comedic relief and found that this somewhat forgotten—and delightfully stereotypical—past time is pretty damned fun. Anyway, it’s exercise disguised as fun. The only kind of exercise we condone.
Tennis has done for the WASPy set what Mac products have been doing for snobbish designers for years, or checkered Vans for skaters—like badges of honor. A necessary component to the perception one’s identity as a whole.
Tennis became more Russian blondes, less Richie Tenenbaum, over the years. Well, I guess that’s not totally accurate; those Eastern Europeans have always dominated to a degree.
Unlike Rob, I never could take sports too seriously. [Sportswear, on the other hand…] Every day I’d walk out onto the court for practice and my tennis coach Richard would say, “Heyyyy, what’s shaking?” and I’d turn around and wiggle my rear and yell, “My butt!” Something tells me I wouldn’t be getting away with that particular greeting these days. Damned lawyers ruin all the fun.
But it’s still fun—quintessential American fun. And if it’s good enough for Auntie Vera, it’s good enough for me! [Seriously, watch that. She was my idol when I was a kid. Which is weird, but typical.]
Serious nerdery right here:
Hydration is key, obviously:
I would suggest any interested parties come take us on, but we’re actually still pretty terrible. For Saratrojans looking for a good, free place to whack some balls, we love both the East Side and West Side Rec Parks.