The Gang's All Here
Perhaps he should have let it go. He couldn't.
A few years back…
He drove to the post office. Alone. He mailed his letter. When he returned to his car, he sat in the passenger seat. He looked at his cell phone. Checked his email. He was playing tennis later. He checked the weather. Still looked promising. He watched a young mother struggling to get a baby stroller into the post office.
That brought back memories. He laughed remembering when his son was quite young and almost caught his fingers in a closing door. “Watch your fingers,” he cautioned him. His son withdrew his hand. Five minutes later he saw his son still staring at his fingers.
His children tease him for leaving bananas peels in his console. Boy, he could go for a banana. The steering wheel caught his eye. Particularly the white suntan lotion stains. He knew that would drive most people nuts. Not him.
This stream of consciousness went on for a while longer before he realized his mistake. When he did, he got out of the car, walked around to the other side, opened the driver’s door, sat down, started the car and drove home.
Yes, he was amused. W tells him these things happen because he lives in his head so much of the time that he loses all track of time and space. He likes her explanation. The idea of living in his head reinforces his own belief that he’s pretty smart.
What he doesn’t know is that W really thinks that all men live in their heads and often don’t see what’s right in front of them.
Let’s get to the real reason he sat in the passenger seat.
Three weeks prior, he had run into G in Glencoe. He hadn’t seen G in 30 years. So it was one of those, “How do we know each other?” moments. It took a few minutes to sort out. In the early 90’s, he and G had played on the Winnetka men’s summer tennis team.
G asked him if he was still playing. He said yes. G invited him to play in his weekly Saturday game. By “game” he meant there were 20 or so guys who got together to play pick up doubles. He immediately accepted G’s offer.
A few days later, G sent him an email with the details.
When he showed up that first Saturday, he found himself playing against the former captain of that 1990’s team. Everyone called him Blackjack. As soon as he saw Blackjack, he immediately remembered they had some unpleasant history between them.
Back in the day, Winnetka had enough good tennis players to field two teams. They were aptly named Winnetka 1 and Winnetka 2.
The last match of the season was always Winnetka 1 versus Winnetka 2. All season long, players on his team talked up the match. Call it bragging rights. Having just moved to Winnetka from Boston six months prior, this was all new to him. By the end of the season, he, too, was looking forward.
The night before the match, he went out for dinner and to a movie. When he got home, there was a message from Blackjack saying he wouldn’t be needed for the big match. There was no explanation. The exclusion baffled him. He had had a good season. He played court three (of courts ranked 1-5) and had won either 6 or 7 out of 9 matches.
Perhaps he should have let it go. He couldn’t. Early the next evening, he called Blackjack and asked why he didn’t play. Blackjack said, “Well, you know, Winnetka 1, Winnetka 2, everyone has known each other for years and just thought it would be fun to have the old gang play each other.”
Perhaps he should have let it go. He couldn’t. He told Blackjack that didn’t seem right. That upset Blackjack. Blackjack said, “Man, I can’t believe you’re calling me about this. I’m in the middle of a dinner party.” Click.
“One day they might respect you. But they’re never going to accept you.”
Here’s what he thought. That’s a swell way to treat someone who has just moved into the community. His next thought was more unsettling. He was the only Jew on the team and Winnetka once had a dark history of anti-semitism. Perhaps, “the old gang” meant everyone except the Jewish guy.
There really was no way to know. The idea that it could be that stung. The same sting he felt in Boston years earlier when a potential magazine distributor offhandedly said to him, “One day they might respect you. But they’re never going to accept you.”
It’s a sting that stays with you. So there he was, 30 years later, on the same court as Blackjack. Blackjack was super friendly. Likewise, so was he. Blackjack’s team won in two competitive sets.
That next Tuesday, G sent an email to the 20 plus players asking who was in for next Saturday. G also wrote he was going away for the summer and that Blackjack would be filling in. So, reply to Blackjack.
He sent Blackjack a note letting him know he would be out of town on Saturday. He also wrote that it was quite something that there they were on the same court again 30 years later.
Blackjack sent him an oversized thumbs up emoji.
By Thursday of the following week, he realized he hadn’t received a “who can play this week?” email from Blackjack. He sent him a note, which read, “Hey, if you guys are playing this week, I’m available.” Blackjack wrote back, “We’re all set. We’ve got 8. I’ll let you know if someone drops out.”
He didn’t get the “who can play?” email from Blackjack the next week nor the week after that. Nor ever again. Blackjack had taken him off the list.
At the time, he decided he wasn’t going to let it bother him. He certainly wasn’t going to call Blackjack. He was just going to move on. There are a lot of tennis games out there.
No, it has never crossed his mind that the real reason he sat in the passenger seat of his car that day was because, beneath it all, it did bother him.
It bothered him a lot.
Do You Know This Man?: An Irreverent Memoir, is an ongoing exploration of the one character who eludes, confounds and mystifies. Me. Right now, it’s available for free, including being able to listen to some of my plays and dive into the best of Sportscape Magazine.
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