An Old Lady Touches My Balls

This morning my son Ian and I got up early to play tennis. There were three courts in the shade and only one was taken. We left a court between us and the old dudes, so we had enough room to take out the hopper and hit a bunch of balls. After we had hit most of the balls in the hopper-- so balls were scattered all over the court and along the fence-- an old lady showed up and claimed the middle court (the court in between us and the old guys). Even though there were other available courts, I could understand the reason she chose the court adjacent to ours-- the middle court was in the shade and the others were in full sun.

I was about to go pick up the balls that were on the back fence, closer to the old lady's court, when she sprang into action. She picked up a bunch of our balls-- with her hands-- and placed them on her racket. She then brought them over to us, smiled, and plopped them into our hopper.

I thanked her, but I was slightly appalled.

She touched my balls!

Since the start of the COVID pandemic, the rule of thumb on the tennis court has been: DO NOT TOUCH RANDOM BALLS.

One friend I play with won't even touch MY balls. We use separate balls. I keep two balls in my pocket, and he keeps two balls in his pocket. We only handle our own balls.

If his ball ends up in my neighborhood, I press it between my foot and my racket, yank on it, bounce it, and bop it over the net: back into his neighborhood.

Some of my tennis partners are less paranoid. My buddy Phil has no problem touching my balls. But I don't think he's going around touching random balls.

Another old lady showed up and the two of them started playing some old lady tennis. Their balls frequently bounced onto our court, and I always tried to graciously retrieve them (in the preferred hygienic foot/racket fashion). My son Ian did the same.

The older old lady said, "This is nice, we have a couple of ball boys . . ."

Then she paused and lowered her voice a shade: "I mean ball men."

There was enough innuendo in her voice to visibly frighten my fifteen-year-old son. 

When the old dudes left, instead of moving over a court, the ladies stayed next to us and continued to chat. They complimented my son on his excellent play and told me how lucky I was to have a child that could hit so well.

These old ladies weren't scared of anything. They weren't scared of COVID, they weren't scared of breaking a hip on the concrete, and they weren't scared of flirting with men many years younger than them. 

I hope I'm that bold when I get old.