YMCA

February 24, 2019

Racquetball at The Y

                I don’t know if you’re aware but Kay and I are Silver Sneakers. I lost my card, but I am still a Sneakers and don’t you forget it. For from this day to the ending of the world, we shall be remembered, we few, we happy few, we band of the 65 and older… 

               The slightest hint of pending fear seems to summon Henry V’s St. Crispin’s Day speech to mind. It’s not the fear of age that disturbs me; it’s the Silver Sneakers thing. It means that at 65 you’re eligible to exercise or recreate in “some” of the workout facilities all over the country. That includes your friendly neighborhood YMCA.

            Yes, Kay and I are now members of the Conroe Y, and it doesn’t cost us anything… and, as Hamlet said, “Ay, there’s the rub.” Before I retired, my excuse for not exercising had to do with limitations on time. I’m a slow walker. I’ve always been good with pushups, but it takes too much time between reps for me to regain my strength. And, it always made me thirsty for Dr Pepper.

            Since retiring from teaching, I’ve had plenty of time to exercise, but, fortunately, didn’t have the proper equipment. Proper equipment costs a fortune. Ergo proctor hoc, I couldn’t afford to expensive. So, Kay dragged me kicking and screaming to the Y, where we signed up for free membership. Yes, I’m talking about demon socialism, in the guise of Medicare, has removed my last valid excuse for not exercising. Big Brother thinks that by encouraging me to exercise, I’ll be healthier and perhaps not spend as much time in the hospital. Oh, it’s a conspiracy all right.

            After all of that, I have to tell you that today was my first day at the Y. Kay couldn’t make it, because we had company. Since it was her kid brother, I decided I had to go exercise. – Actually, Tracy, Kay’s brother, is one of the greatest people to be around. However, Brad Meyer had already reserved one of the two racquetball courts for us. So, this time it was Brad’s turn to drag my buns to the Y.

            I’ve got to tell you up front that I had played racquetball only once, and that was before puberty hit me. Brad said he hadn’t played in 20 years. I must confess, though, at SFA I was the class champion at One Wall Handball. You see, I’m good with my hands, but if I have to hold a racquet and try to hit a ball that’s bouncing off as many as four walls I looked like I was trying to fight off killer bees.

            Brad beat me two out of three. I pretty much threw the second game, because I didn’t have the energy to play a third. It was that and the fact some woman wanted to join us so we could play cutthroat. Hey, I had no idea, either. Turns out, cutthroat is where three people enter the room and one of ‘em serves, while the other two try to beat him at each serve. Once that happens, they rotate. The first one to reach 21 points is the winner. Brad and I play 11-point games, because a 21-point game gets boring after 11 points, as a result of neither player having enough energy to chase the ball.

            Brad told the lady that this was our first time to play in 20 years. I’m glad he didn’t mention the puberty thing. She looked like a pro. Had her own racquet, bag of balls, and sweatbands on her head, wrists, ankles and left thigh. I remember stuff like that, because I’m a writer.

            The lady said that both her wrists had been fractured, her right knee destroyed and a couple dozen vertebra had to be fused. They had to wire her spleen to one of her ribs. In short, she said she wasn’t as good as she looked, so she was joining us for cutthroat. Brad told her she wasn’t. She told him she was. This went back and forth until I brought up puberty. That seemed to confuse her and gave Brad and me time to hurry onto the court and lock the door. (You can actually lock the door. Who knew these things?)

            After Bradley beat me like a cheap rug, I followed him down to the weight room where I got tangled up in three of the workout machines. It is so hard to maintain any semblance of respect while in a weight room. There’s just something about sitting down on a cushion that’s meant for your head, and grabbing hold of two bars with your hands that are meant for your feet, and try to push the bar up with your feet, instead of pushing down with your hands.

            Bradson could’ve helped, but he thought it best to walk away. Like I had cooties or something. Eventually, we entered the sauna, which I must say is one of the most ridiculous places to cool off. There was one other athletic-looking guy in there with his shorts and shirt on. Brad thought that a good indication that perhaps I should go put on some shorts. (That part was a joke.)

            When I started complaining about the heat, the athlete told me that this was a good sweat. I told him that I sweat all the time; that I have to wear a sweatband when I brush my teeth. He said, “Yeah, but this is a good sweat.” That’s what he said.-- Good sweat? Like my other sweat is bad sweat. I didn’t care for that one whit. – I think Shakespeare used the word “whit” in “Two Gentlemen of Verona.” (I have not a clue.)

            I’m afraid to say that I felt great after my first Y visit. Now tomorrow I’m going to feel like my spleen is stapled to my tailbone. Regardless, I have to take Kay to the Y later in the week, and Brad is reserving a racquetball court for tomorrow. I asked him to reserve the court for a later time, so the lady with the surplus vertebra wouldn’t be there to bug us.

            It’s bad enough getting beat by Brad. A lady using a walker? Word would get around to the rest of the YMCA members and I’d be banned from the sauna.

              

end

You can contact Mark at hayter.mark@gmail.com.