I’ve never been the sharpest tool in the shed. I’m fairly well read, and can usually keep up in most discussions. But when it comes to the latest music, style, and/or fashions, I’m not your guy. And nowhere was that more apparent than in high school. I went to a Catholic all-boys high school. Some of the wealthiest kids in town went to my school. My dad was a clerk in an engineering office so I was pretty much at the opposite end of that scale. At school, my group of friends and I were in the clique of people that didn’t belong to a clique. And, to top it off, I lived a pretty sheltered life.
Now seeing how much of the talk between us guys was about sex, drugs, and rock and roll. And seeing how I didn’t really know much about any of those, I needed to figure out a way to keep from being the butt of everyone’s jokes. It was then that I discovered, “the look.” I didn’t actually need to know about those things as long as I looked like I knew about those things. A slight tilting of the head and narrowing of the eyes with a little nod here and there, and everyone just assumed I knew whatever it was they were talking about. Overnight I became knowledgeable in sex, drugs, rock and roll, and pretty much anything else I was clueless about. And, I never had to worry about getting called on it. If someone called me on it, I just gave them a more intense version of the look and they invariably backed down. It was the look that gave me the reputation of being very knowledgeable in the ways of the world. And it was the mental equivalent of the look that led me to one of the most, if not the most embarrassing event of my life.
Fast forward to college and they’ve got sign-ups for an Intramural Tennis Tournament. Now I play tennis. I learned to play when my first high school sweetheart dumped me. I went to the nearby high school and hit a tennis ball against a wall for hours on end. Nothing like droning, repetitive motion to rid yourself of the sweetie who done you wrong. By the time college rolled around, I had learned to play the game and could usually beat my friends who all had learned by a method similar to my “balls on walls” self-training.
Armed with this incredible knowledge, I went to sign up for the tournament. There was just a sheet on the door of the Intramural Office with a space for names and a space for which bracket, novice or expert, you fit in. Which one was I? I had no formal training but I had been playing for awhile. So I did what I normally did when I couldn’t decide. I left it blank. It wasn’t until I got to the court for the tournament, that I discovered the organizers had placed me into the “expert” bracket.
I rode my bike to the court that day. A beautiful sunny day. I had gone out and purchased all manner of tennis attire. I had a white shirt, white shorts, white headband, and two white wristbands. I actually looked like a tennis player. I met my opponent. We received our court assignment and he suggested we warm up. He hit a shot over the net and I immediately knew I was in trouble. While he didn’t move much more than the wall I learned against, the ball came screaming over the net. I managed to return it but not very gracefully. At this point I’m thinking I probably needed two or three more years of practice against the wall. I knew, to get the upper hand in this match, I needed to show him what I was capable of. His next shot came easily over the net and I decided to put a little “zip” on it. I figured I’d add a bunch of topspin and have it drop over the net hard and fast. I approached the ball and hit it solidly, pulling up hard on the racket to impart the topspin. I pulled up so hard as a matter of fact, that the head of the racket hit me squarely on the bridge of my nose, splitting it open. I don’t know who was more surprised, my opponent or me. I immediately grabbed one of my wristbands and placed it firmly on my nose. I apologized and asked for a bit of time to take care of it. He asked if I’d like to quit. I gave him “the look” and he backed down. It took both wristbands to staunch the flow of blood. Once the flow stopped, we started the match.
By the middle of the match, he was beating me quite soundly. I might have returned one or two shots but I had scored no points. And he just kept looking at me. I couldn’t tell if it was with pity or distain, or a combination of the two. I felt as if I had to salvage something from this game. I needed to at least score a point or two and resolved to take my play up a notch. He hit a shot that again came easily over the net. I was determined to return it in style, taking care on my follow through to stop before I hit my nose. I approached the ball and came through with a nice forehand. Unfortunately, the ball hit the edge of the racket, popped up and hit me, you guessed it, right on the bridge of my nose, splitting it open yet again. Thankfully I had not used my headband to suppress the previous flow, so its pristine white terrycloth surface was available for use.
I managed to get the bleeding stopped yet again and insisted we continue the match. By this time I’m sure my opponent thought I was insane or at least a little lightheaded from the blood loss and shock. To his credit, he didn’t ease up. I’m thinking he wanted to get this over as quickly as possible. Which he did, finishing the match in short order. He quickly shook my hand and got the heck out of there. I climbed on my bike, wanting to cry but forced myself to laugh, thereby making it all the more surreal.
As I rode home I imagined everyone in their cars staring at me. When I got home and looked in the mirror, I knew then it wasn’t my imagination. I had dried blood all over my face as well as down the front of my “white” tennis shirt. I’m sure I could have been a poster child for one of those high school “slasher films.” Or a least an extra in “Red Asphalt.” After staring for what seemed like forever, I gave myself “the look” and went to the bathroom to clean up.
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