the great leslie

Tennis is the Hendrickson family sport. And I, as you may know, am a Hendrickson. My brother, Drew, was just here and we were discussing all things. He is a very good player, and has taught tennis lessons for years. He has taught a lot of snobby folks in his day, but has also taught cute little kids like Charlie, one of his current students, a three-year-old who likes Drew to pick him up when he can't quite reach to add his hand to the huddle.

But tennis is nothing if it isn't family time. My dad recently wrote an entry on his blog about how he and his father, Clint Hendrickson, would play tennis while my grandmother, Eloise, was dying. When the home attendant would come over, they would go hit tennis balls to get some fresh air and deal with what was happening in their Demerest, N.J. home.

My brother and I were recalling a much happier, more recent day. The three of us, Dad, Drew, and I, went to hit some on the Saturday after Thanksgiving at Atkinson Common in Newburyport, Mass., where my parents live. We were just hitting around, taking turns as the one on the other side of the pair. Drew was at the top of his bombastic, look-what-i-can-do self, hitting through-the-legs and behind-the-back shots. I, as usual, was just trying to keep up with the all-stars. My father is an excellent player, and, for the record, Clinto (my grandfather's nickname) was also terrific. I am a good player, but these fellas are superstars in certain tennis circles.

Anyway, we're finishing our rally session, trying to end on a good one. We've gone through a few "last ones" without success, and as everyone knows, you can't end on a bad ball in any sport. The ball goes up and over a few times and my dad hits a winner at the net with the handle of the racquet. With the handle!

"It was the cutest, coolest, funniest thing ever," my brother commented tonight. My brother, the acrobatic tennis pro.

He was so right.