When we moved back to El Dorado from south Texas, I started playing tennis seriously. After playing most of the El Dorado players for the first couple of years, I thought I was good enough to play Dr. Myron Shoffner, the best player in town.
Dr. Shoffner had been playing tennis all his adult life and had a roomful of trophies. It was mid-summer and Dr. Shoffner was 15 years older than me, and I figured if we stayed on that hot court for a couple of hours, I would win some games.
I was dead wrong. We played six sets, and every set was 6-0. He beat me like a drum. It took me nearly a year to win a game, and nearly 10 years to win a match. When I turned 55, I hadn’t missed many weeks when I didn’t play Dr. Shoffner at least two matches, and was finally beating him on a regular basis. It was a great tennis and friend relationship.
Back when my son Ashley was playing tennis for El Dorado High School, we were traveling in Europe on vacation, and carried our rackets. We were in France and were hitting on a local court when the players on the court beside us struck up a conversation. One thing led to another, and when we found out they were father and son, we decided to play a match with them.
It started out with us winning the first few games, and yes, we hit everything to the father. Then things changed, and it seemed we were mostly playing the young son. He was returning 90 percent of the balls, and when he served it was over quickly.
We lost the set; the second was even worse, but it was a fun morning. We were putting up our rackets and chatting with the father when I complimented his son. He responded: “Yes, he’s a good player. He plays on our Davis Cup team.”
That’s the premier international team event in men’s tennis.
Later that same year I played in an open tournament, which ended up with me playing a guy who looked to be about 25. As I walked to the court, I overheard my opponent mouthing off to his friends about playing an old man, which was me. I was 56.
As we changed ends of the court he didn’t speak and generally exhibited as a spoiled brat with a bad temper. He won the first set 6-4. However, I noticed his backhand was suspect. In the second set I hit 99 percent of the balls to his backhand, and by the time the set was over he was livid, cursing, and slamming balls to the opposite end of the court.
When I hit set point, instead of handing me the balls to start the third set, he hit them to the other end of the court. I picked up the balls and walked up to the net. He came to the net and I handed him the balls. “Here you go, Sport. Your win! I don’t play jerks!”
Earlier that year I was in the finals of the Arkansas Hard Court championship. I had won my semifinal match that morning, and when I turned in my score, I was told I had to play the final in 30 minutes. It had rained the day before, and several matches were canceled.
I didn’t have a choice, even though my opponent had played the day before and was rested. He was the current No. 1 player in my age group; it was going to be a hard match. I was sitting on the resting bench when my opponent walked up. He was one of those “just get it back” guys, and he was a runner. I won the spin of the racket.
“I’ll receive,” I said, thinking that if I could jump out with a break of serve, I might have a good chance to win the first set.
He served one of his steady “just get it in” serves, and the first point of the match was underway. After 15 rallies, I made a mistake and lost the point. The next point was about the same, except I won it. Then he made an uncharacteristic mistake. He made a bad drop shot, and I nailed it. It was 30-15 now, and I was doing everything I could to win that first game. Finally, I forced him to lob long, and won.
I was up 5-4 and serving for the set when I glanced at my watch. My God, I thought, this set is already an hour long, and it isn’t even over. I won the point, and 20 minutes later I hit an overhead and won the first set.
But I was tired and my legs felt like lead. In the next set I let down a bit, and lost the first three games. I was down two service breaks. Then I had an idea. I walked to the net, and my opponent looked puzzled.
“I want to forfeit this set. Not the match; just this set,” I said.
“What?”
“Yes, that’s what I’d like to do.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s allowed. We’ll have to get a ruling on that,” he said.
We walked over to the tournament table and after a long discussion and a check of the rule book, I was told I couldn’t forfeit one set; I must forfeit the match or play on.
In a few minutes he was back serving, and I just stood on my base line with no intention of hitting a ball back. He looked upset, but after four balls, he won the game, and I proceeded to hit every ball on my service in the net.
The set was over in minutes. I knew that in a three-set match, you have 10 minutes of rest before you start the third set, and I headed for the locker room. Having already gotten about 10 minutes’ rest by standing around and not playing for the last part of the set, I stretched out on the locker room floor and let the cooling system blow over me.
I felt 100 percent better as I walked out on the court for the third set, but my opponent was irritated with the way I finished the second set. I started by serving a dink underhand serve that he netted and cursed. Then I came to the net on my lefty serve to the ad court as I pulled him wide. He tried a safe high shot, and I put it away at the net.
An hour and a half later, I finally put away one of his many lobs and won. He was really hot about the way I played the second set and wouldn’t shake hands, but with that win, I became the No. 1 player in the 55s.
Email Richard Mason at richard@gibraltarenergy.com.