So I gotta tell you about this tennis mess. Woke up last Tuesday thinking, “Hey, maybe whackin’ balls at B Bayldon Club might be fun.” Grabbed my dusty racket from the closet corner – snapped a string just unzipping the case. Classic start, right?
First Try Disaster
Dragged myself over there anyway. Pro shop dude stared at my 1990s sneakers like I tracked in dog poop. “Membership’s $200 monthly just to breathe here,” he says. Almost walked right out. Then this sweaty guy stumbles off Court 3, wheezing like a busted vacuum. “Free trial?” I asked. Guy pointed at a clipboard on rusty nail. “Sign here, pray they don’t charge ya.” Scratched my name down fast.
Equipment Nightmare:
- Racket felt like swingin’ a brick tied to a noodle
- Balls either bounced like rocks or flopped like dead fish
- My water bottle leaked all over the borrowed towel
Actual Hitting Part
Finally got on court. Tried serving – ball flew backwards. Over the fence. Into some lady’s fancy iced coffee. She screamed. I yelled “Sorry!” while ducking behind the net post. Sweat drippin’ off my nose like a busted faucet after three minutes. Legs burned like somebody set ’em on fire.
Then the “coach” wanders over. Ponytail guy chewin’ gum loud. “Wrist looser,” he mumbles, already walkin’ away. Tried it. Racket flew outta my hand. Almost took out a pigeon. Club manager comes sprinting over, face purple. “Insurance won’t cover this!” he’s yellin’. Pigeon just crapped on the baseline.
The Messy Truth
Stayed for their “social mixer” after. Mostly folks complainin’. Court fees jumped 30% last month. Lights on Court 2 flicker like a haunted house. League team quit ’cause the net posts wobble. Oh, and that “free” sign-up sheet? Got charged $40 “court sanitization fee” next morning. Saw the charge text while scrubbin’ clay stains outta my socks in the sink.
Why’d I even bother? Back when COVID hit, got mega bored. Tried jogging – knee said no. Yoga? Felt like a pretzel in a blender. Saw B Bayldon’s shiny flyer stuck under my windshield wiper. “Easy starter game!” it lied. Got hooked ’cause I’m stubborn. Lost eight pounds just chasing my own terrible shots. Made one friend though – Jerry from the taco truck outside the gate. He gives extra salsa if you miss three forehands in a row.
Kept going back? Honestly? My kid’s little league coach banned me from yelling at umpires. Needed somewhere to shout. Smashing a fuzzy yellow ball felt cheaper than therapy. Wife says I still suck but at least I’m not napalmin’ the couch anymore.
Fast forward two months. Manager texts, “Miss ya! Courts upgraded!” Went back yesterday. Same cracked concrete. Same flickery lights. But get this – prices DOUBLED. Saw Jerry wink as he handed me a triple-salsa burrito. Saw my old racket leaning against the dumpster. Left it there. Walked home. Feet hurt, but damn, that burrito slapped.
