They met late in the game and were set in their ways. But killer tennis on a public court was cheaper than couples therapy.
We always walk there near dusk, when the sun is low on the horizon. I tote the water bottle; Christopher carries the rackets and balls.The tennis courts are a tiny green oasis in our urban neighborhood. We walk up Thirty-eighth Avenue, past houses with neatly planted rose- bushes and flowering jacaranda, and houses with peeling paint and old couches set out on the sidewalk, stuffing coming out of their cushions. We pass kids on bikes; teenagers hanging out by the corner store, buying their fried pork rinds and sodas; and abandoned apartment buildings with boarded-up windows and broken glass in the driveways.
The courts are locked, so we have to get the key from Rich, the guy who runs a science center for neighborhood children in the same small sanctuary (Brookdale Park, it’s called). There’s a field adjacent to the courts where Latino guys play huge games of soccer, dozens of players on each team. There’s a baseball diamond where Christopher and I glimpse Little Leaguers up at bat, and a couple of basketball courts. But hardly anyone seems to play tennis except us.
Rich opens the padlock and wishes us a good game. Gray-haired, kind-eyed and perpetually weary, he has given his life to the kids in this neighborhood, begging and borrowing to get them computers to work on, bringing in Hula-hoops and guinea pigs, tools and wood and paint and art teachers. He helps them with projects like decorating the spokes of their bikes with foil or learning about physics by making a miniature tornado in an old bleach bottle, and he provides a safe space where they can do their homework. It’s not easy. There’s a lot of drug traffic on the aptly named High Street, which borders the park, and a lot of parents missing in action.
Despite Rich’s efforts to keep things clean and safe, enterprising partyers scale the high fence around the tennis courts after dark; we’ve found broken bottles and soda cans and some-times a spent condom. Once we’ve cleared these away, though, the place is semi-private and wild and ours.
