Growing up much more a brain than a jock in my hometown, my dad had an interesting theory on me and sports. A former high school football player and mid-distance sprinter himself, he decided he wanted me to play a sport, but not one where head injuries were par for the course. Given the recent scrutiny around football and concussions, dad might have been ahead of his time when he first put a racquet in my hand.
I'm not sure if it was my first racquet, but it was certainly my favorite. It was a Wilson, laminated wood with an orange stripe on the throat, it bore the signature of some player I was too young to recognize at the time, and whose celebrity is too faded for me to remember now. Secondhand, with a wooden racquet holder and black and white strings that I beat until they broke a year or two later. I should point out it was the late 80s at this point. There were metal frames on the market, but none that cost a dollar, so, it was decided, I would learn like the old masters.
I hated the game too. Should I mention that?
