Poor People's Tennis

This past week NYC has tasted a touch of spring. It was a delightful 50 plus degrees outside on Tuesday and Wednesday. Okay I pulled on my usual leggings and long shirt combo, strapped the baby in a cheap umbrella stroller and headed to the nearest park. As I walk past the empty mid-morning basketball court and daycare group filled jungle gyms I reminisce about my teen aged sunny afternoons in Brooklyn.

It consisted of bike riding, walks to City Line(window shopping) or handball. Handball is a serious sport in the City...as well as double dutch. There is even an annual tournament. All you need is a dollar and a wall, or park court. The dollar gets you blue ball (giggle) from the bodega. Pick a team mate or play singles, have imaginary lines and boxes. Throw the ball and the opposing side slaps with the palm of their hand. It's like tennis, but the poor man's version. I only know one tennis court in East NY and it's a ugly concrete space with faded yellow lines. I doubt it's still there. The elementary school that's on the lot probably but up one of those trailer schools due to over crowding.

8 years later and a private Upstate University education allowed me to realize how different America is from city to suburb and state by state. I worked at a playhouse in Pennsylvania near a sprawling golf course and tennis court. There was a sparkling public pool across the road. I learned how to play tennis on that faded concrete court in Brooklyn. I learned how to golf in our middle school gym, putting balls at the gate covered windows. I took ballet at the nearby middle school that was funded by the Parks Department. All the activities prepared me to fit in a little bit at Syracuse. At least if someone wanted to play tennis in the summer I could join them.

I wonder if my son will learn to play basket ball in a bronx park or will he take tennis lesson on a green court in Pennsylvania. He'll probably play virtual tennis on a Nintedo WII like the other kids are doing today. Over protected parents spending their tax refunds on 200$ game systems too scared to let their off spring play outside. God forbid little Keisha is pick up by child traffickers or Bobby is ran over by a distracted driver texting on his Blackberry. In 5 years if we are still living in New York, I'm heading to the nearest corner store and buying my son a rubber ball. I'll have some one to play singles with.