Soft Landing

Whew.

On the second go-around, I achieved the soft landing for which I had hoped.

The USTA men's 35 Grass National Championships provided the venue and opportunity. Tennis Pro returned to the East End to compete. I was there for most of the week, we spent sufficient time together, tentative and awkward, both of us sensing the end of summer.

He liked this shot.

A great doubles match.

He didn't have a great tournament run, out in the second round, no one more surprised or disappointed than he. I pushed back, kept a distance. I know him and I don't know him, but I didn't like seeing him lose, beating himself. Then, in a subsequent match, he pulled a stomach muscle. He won't be serving for a couple of weeks. It's clear that he's beat up, after months on the sun-burnt courts of the East Hampton Tennis Club. He admitted as much - physically and emotionally.

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Hmm. I started this/that post a couple of weeks ago, and I've fallen off the wagon, couldn't get up the jones to finish it. Now,I think I can put not a period, but rather a semicolon on the end of the phrase, a continuation perhaps, over time.

TP is back in Florida. We've chatted by phone, easy-breezy. He's returned to the life he's created for himself and honed over his years. I told him he inhabits his profession. I can imagine him coaching or training young players well into his sixties and seventies, maybe longer.

He's phoned from his car, from inside a Circuit City, another time from atop his tractor lawn mower (the name John Deere floats across my mind). He's cleaned his home tennis court, from where and upon which he teaches. He's shopping for a new personal computer, but the big plasma flat-screens diverted his attention. I pointed out that if he goes for the big, fat TV, he's ll need to upgrade his sound system too. All that set-up, I know he's daunted.

Last night, when he called, upbeat and full of laughter, he said, "I know you don't think I ever listen to you, but..."

"I never said that," I interjected.

"But you thought it."

"How would you know what I think - unless you're me?" The old-school journalist's question. But I relented, "Ah, Jedi mind-trick-reader..."

We laughed.

"Well, I do listen to you," he continued. "You said I should get a dog..."

"Yes, I did. To care for another mammal, get you outside of yourself, outside of only your needs."

"I got a dog!" He sounded like a little kid. And it sounded good.

Of course, he then explained that he had bought it for his now ex-girlfriend six months before he came to the East End to teach. And now she returned the poor creature.

"The dog-will-love-you-because-I-don't-anymore dog?" I asked him.

"Yes. That's right. Exactly."

It's a Yorkshire Terrier. That's one small dog. A celebutante's pocketbook dog. Good grief.

"This dog never bonded with her," he insisted. "The dog likes me. It's tearing around the house, but it listens to me. Except that it needs a new name."

"It's a girl dog?" I imagined this itty-bitty thing, and TP, looming at six-feet-five. Mutt and Jeff. I woulda suggested a big dog. A Bernese Mountain Dog. A Berner.

"Yes."

"Well. how about Spike?"

"Naw, that's too obvious." He said that - he really did.

"Well then. How about Dave? Or Charles?" For irony, I thought.

"No. The way she runs around. I think I'll call her Crash."

"Like...," and we both said the words at almost at the same time, "Baseball, Kevin Costner, Bull Durham."

Crash it is. I just hope he doesn't go a tie a ribbon in the poor mutt's hair. Better yet, just get her trimmed.

And the point of this, is what?

Is this: The summer has ended. I'm on the precipice of another autumn in New York. I need to pick up more freelance: editing/writing/copy writing/public relations/media work - and get this indy film company funded.

I was melancholy for about a day, summer over. The East End is fantasyland in so many ways. Oz. The fun and excitement of rolling out there, a summer thing.

I went out last week - and I'll go back out again next week. Like I do. The autumn sunsets are startling. The summer season-only restaurants and shops are closed. It's quiet and more beautiful.

 

But here and now, a bar called Katwalk beckons. The city is alight. On fire.

Comments

[Devona]

You're back! Hallelujah! I was panicking there for a minute, as I do so adore your stories and look forward to your next blog...as one would anticipate sitting down with a lovely glass of red wine and a phenomenal steak. I’m bummed as well, with summer gone & winter whispering just around the corner, though the fall colors around here are absolutely gorgeous, I must say. Enjoy the crisp, cool weather & stay well, my dear.