For most of my life I’ve had only a few friends. Now I have added to that roster. Not that I’ve become more social (I’ve become less, if you can imagine that), but I’ve expanded my definition of friendship.
I have local friends who help me feel anchored to my community. Historical friends that have been deeply entwined in the fabric of my life for decades. Writer friends who understand that complicated milieu. And activity friends, which men often have—friends who share interests more than they share an emotional connection.
That brings me to Pete. He’s one of my tennis friends. He’s of my vintage, and for the entire season on the red clay courts at the Albany Tennis Club, he has been my most frequent opponent or partner in doubles.
I don’t know too much about Pete’s life outside of tennis. He’s retired (not sure what his financial profession was), married, a couple of kids, one is an air traffic controller, a grandkid or two. He knows even less about my life. The talk is tennis. And on that court of play, we’re as close as blood brothers. He reaches out to me almost every day, he sets up all the matches with other players, and all I have to do is say yes, show up, and play.
Pete is physically similar to me: tall and rangy, more agile and athletic than we look. I know exactly how he wields his racquet like some magic wand to execute a spinning drop shot that dies as it barely crosses the net. I know his second serve is vulnerable to a hard, deep return when I’m playing against him. I know he always wants to receive serves on the deuce side of the court, and wants to serve from the north side of the court. I’m happy to take the add side or serve on the sunny side just to have an opportunity to play with him.
Pete displays outstanding sportsmanship at all times—no arguing, no crowing, no cheap line calls, no sore losing—while harboring a killer instinct. Case in point: we teamed up against another strong duo for a best-of-three sets match. We won in two lopsided sets, and our foursome decided to play a third. I figured now that the match was won, we’d use the third set to work on some techniques, and I proposed we switch sides, with me receiving serves on the deuce side and Pete taking the add side.
He immediately and emphatically said no. I asked: Don’t you want to practice other things? No. He wants to win, win, win. Show no mercy. I was a bit taken aback, but that’s Pete. Competitive as all out, in the friendliest of ways.
All summer, Pete texted me almost every day about tennis. We played three or four times a week, and never saw each other off the courts. This weekend he’s heading back to South Carolina, where he spends the other three seasons of the year. I will miss my tennis friend, whom I hardly know. I won’t be in touch with him the entire time because we don’t have that kind of friendship, but come next May, my phone will chime and it will be Pete, ready for a new season.
Wait, there’s my phone now. It’s Pete! One more time on the court with my specialty friend before he leaves.
