Getting More From Les

Do I Stay or Do I Go?

The balls feel like viral particles.

This indecision’s bugging me…The Clash

I am standing at the service line, watching as my partner ranges to his right to go after a passing shot that has whizzed past my feebly outstretched racket. It is the first night of my tennis league, my indoor tennis league, and Month 6 of Life During COVID. And I am wondering what the heck I am doing here.

We have been pretty careful since March. Yes, we shop in grocery stores, and not just during the hours restricted to us AARP’ers. But everyone in the stores is wearing masks and we do a lot of sanitizing.

Yes, we have had friends and family to our house, but always on the back deck, well-spaced, and again with plenty of sanitation. (One exception–when it got too dark outside and friends came into our sunroom to finish a game of Password. I still regret that–and not just because my team lost.)

Yes, we have eaten at restaurants, but 3 times in 6 months isn’t too excessive. And 2/3 of those meals were outside dining.

So no, we are not perfect, but we have been trying to stay safe and healthy.

And now my tennis league has begun. Sure, the club has regulations. Masks are required in all areas except the courts. Locker rooms are closed, water fountains turned off, after-match beers while watching the 4th quarter of Monday Night Football are a no-no. And we must follow a circuitous pathway through the lobby to keep the incoming players from the outgoing players–something about as effective as the one-way arrows in the grocery store aisles in preventing close encounters of the virus kind.

And here I am, unmasked, in a cavernous room with stagnant air, where 11 other men are running, jumping, yelling, laughing, and expelling our respiratory contents as we circle each other. tapping rackets with our partners. In my head, I see images of coronaviruses, each as big as the Wilson 4’s we are playing with, floating in space.

Yes, I know this isn’t a packed political rally. It’s not a motorcycle festival. It’s not a frat party or a drink at a crowded bar. But with my nearly Medicare status, and with my diabetes, my risk factors stand out in this group of highly athletic 30 and 40-year-olds.

So I begin to get afraid. And I ask myself, when is the fun worth the fear?

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