Thanks again to Keith in Denver for this multi-faceted question.  My initial reaction, one of chaos and far-reaching memory banks, was quickly overcome as the answer to the first part of Keith’s question easily springs to mind (pardon the pun). 

Tennis season.

My all-time, desert-island favorite memory from high school is the spring tennis season of my sophomore year (1994 for those of you counting).  It’s the time of year, the time of life, that still – to this day – comes floating into consciousness with the familiar smell of a tube of Bonne Bell lip balm (pina colada works best) or the happy-folky sounds of the Lemonheads It’s A Shame About Ray. Even that first whiff of spring air after you’ve opened the windows for the first time after a long winter calls it to mind.

I’ve always been a huge fan of spring time.  Consistently vulnerable to the ‘winter blues’, I’ve always had a tendency to stretch my arms skyward to spring’s warmer sunshine.  While I certainly enjoyed playing volleyball during the fall season, there was something special about tennis season.  As a whole, we weren’t that talented as far as teams went.  Tennis wasn’t a sport that kids in my hometown grew up with – no, we were far more well-versed in more traditional sports such as softball, baseball, basketball and soccer.  I joined the tennis team when I was in eighth grade, most likely looking for any reason to not have to go home after school before my father got home, showing up for the first practice with my dad’s old wooden racquet.  A rather insistent demand for an upgrade was soon to follow.

Surprisingly, I got the hang of the sport pretty quickly, and started playing second doubles on the varsity team merely weeks into my first season.  By sophomore year, I was playing second singles, and poised to take over first, as we stood to lose many seniors after that season. 

Sophomore year was good to me.  It was a transition year – a year in which I grew out of my wallflower ways and became much bolder.  I had successfully managed to win the affections of a boy on whom I’d had a six-month long crush, and older boy, in a slightly higher social circle.  I often underestimate the positive impact that whole thing had on my otherwise sheepish personality.  But that’s a story for another day.

It was sometime during that season that I gained the nickname  “Little McEnroe”, as I became well-known for my slight emotional outbursts when I struggled to win a match I knew I could win.  Those opportunities were few and far between (by senior year, I had managed to bring my season win count to a whopping three matches).  My brother, and other members of the guys’ tennis team, would often watch our matches on their off days, gravitating towards my area of the court, placing bets on how many times my racquet would go over the fence and down the hill.

For the most part, I held my own playing tennis.  There were times, yes, when I lost horribly (I still remember how to do the Dover-Sherborn rain dance), and rare instances where I came out victorious (Marion was generally on our level, and King Phillip – well, even we walked all over those guys).  But most of the time, I lost, but I went down fighting.  It was a sport that I could get better at.  It provided a challenge and a release, and I had a coach who believed in me.  Perhaps it was the rare, three-month period each year that my mother actually paid attention – she would religiously attend my matches, even sitting in as the coach for a match when he was delayed.  She was rooting for me; proud, even. Maybe.  It gave her something to talk about with the other mothers – something that didn’t have to do with my brother, which was exhilarating.

It was also during that particular tennis season that the sun set on my first ‘love’, and the Wayland chapter began.  But again, that’s for the latter part of this layered question.

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