After three times so close, so what’s the deal?
When you come so close it’s can’t be just bad serendipity, there’s a story being told, there’s a foreordination being revealed, karma unveiled, a surprise, upshot. What’s happening?
OK dear tennis Gods what’s the deal, when our horoscope repeatedly defies the odds there must be a larger lesson put before our face. What are we being told here?
What’s tugging at our consciousness, holding us back? Here’s the question – Were we to win, so what do we lose?
The only down side of getting the win is our team becomes Humpy Dumpty, all shattered for two years. So what are we afraid to lose? Here’s what:
Playing together for 20 years, sharing off-season stories about the almost win, rethinking the new years strategy, rekindling the upcoming hope.
Getting drunk with the spouses, reliving the points, adding to the 20-year folklore, comparing to the years before, it’s a venerable history, continuity assured, it’s a dynasty uninterrupted by a terrible win.
The Saturday clinics, the guys all show up, the array of bad clothing, some go back 20 years. It’s the making of fun; the Anderman caustic, like we’re fresh recruits each new summer, bonded into a team by the Anderman bombastic.
It’s both vulgar and lofty. It’s the license to be foul: where else is there sweating, spitting, and swearing. It’s the soaring hope of getting better. It’s the dream of winning it all, almost!
Hell, if we won we’re have to be humble – what’s that. It’s only the excruciating defeat that makes the spirit soar. It’s always the terrible disappointment that creates the drama of folklore, myths, and legends. It’s ‘Casey at the Bat’, Pickett’s last charge, the Alamo. It’s our senior team.
It’s the picture of great long time friends, all framed by the green of a tennis court:
It’s Tim cracking a backhand volley for a winner.
It’s John with the thundering overhead snap, out playing in the dark, accompanied by his favorite music - rap
It’s Dave winking at Doug down 6-9in the 3rd set tiebreak, Looked at the other team with a grin, Cause they knew they’re win
It’s Greg and Rich wearing their opponents thin
It’s Norio thinking he’s a leopard, making winning such a habit, he really must be a rabbit
It’s man mountain Dean, the best athlete seen, carries a honey do list, volleys winners with a firm wrist
It’s Ken our Godfather and scout, finds the directions and food, gives his block time out
It’s Bob the coach, got us all singing the same mantra, his fiery tactics beyond reproach
It’s Leon the Lawyer, bandaged to the nines, the senior player he enshrines
It’s Frank the stout marine, without a cooler of beer he’s never been seen
It’s Don who’s the best, for when I screw up, he takes care of the rest
It’s Art with his clipboard, Keeps us all together
Tinkers with the lineups, the matches are all tossups
Poker is his forte, the drop shot his cachet
It’s been good year after year,
Wouldn’t have it any other way,
Been so long I’ve turned super senior, willing but grey
For me there’s a taste of childhood déjà vu,
Ignored the books, had a misspent youth,
For me it was the tar of playgrounds that held the truth
Had to grow up, had a company to run
Was harried all the time, far from fun
Sold the company, have a chance at a 2nd youth
Joined the senior team and now know my truth
The plush of country clubs is not at par
With the senior team and the sweet smell of tar
Here’s to the team, the team must go on
For winning the playoffs was just a con
There’s something much better than success
It’s being with you guys, you’re still the best.
When you come so close it’s can’t be just bad serendipity, there’s a story being told, there’s a foreordination being revealed, karma unveiled, a surprise, upshot. What’s happening?
OK dear tennis Gods what’s the deal, when our horoscope repeatedly defies the odds there must be a larger lesson put before our face. What are we being told here?
What’s tugging at our consciousness, holding us back? Here’s the question – Were we to win, so what do we lose?
The only down side of getting the win is our team becomes Humpy Dumpty, all shattered for two years. So what are we afraid to lose? Here’s what:
Playing together for 20 years, sharing off-season stories about the almost win, rethinking the new years strategy, rekindling the upcoming hope.
Getting drunk with the spouses, reliving the points, adding to the 20-year folklore, comparing to the years before, it’s a venerable history, continuity assured, it’s a dynasty uninterrupted by a terrible win.
The Saturday clinics, the guys all show up, the array of bad clothing, some go back 20 years. It’s the making of fun; the Anderman caustic, like we’re fresh recruits each new summer, bonded into a team by the Anderman bombastic.
It’s both vulgar and lofty. It’s the license to be foul: where else is there sweating, spitting, and swearing. It’s the soaring hope of getting better. It’s the dream of winning it all, almost!
Hell, if we won we’re have to be humble – what’s that. It’s only the excruciating defeat that makes the spirit soar. It’s always the terrible disappointment that creates the drama of folklore, myths, and legends. It’s ‘Casey at the Bat’, Pickett’s last charge, the Alamo. It’s our senior team.
It’s the picture of great long time friends, all framed by the green of a tennis court:
It’s Tim cracking a backhand volley for a winner.
It’s John with the thundering overhead snap, out playing in the dark, accompanied by his favorite music - rap
It’s Dave winking at Doug down 6-9in the 3rd set tiebreak, Looked at the other team with a grin, Cause they knew they’re win
It’s Greg and Rich wearing their opponents thin
It’s Norio thinking he’s a leopard, making winning such a habit, he really must be a rabbit
It’s man mountain Dean, the best athlete seen, carries a honey do list, volleys winners with a firm wrist
It’s Ken our Godfather and scout, finds the directions and food, gives his block time out
It’s Bob the coach, got us all singing the same mantra, his fiery tactics beyond reproach
It’s Leon the Lawyer, bandaged to the nines, the senior player he enshrines
It’s Frank the stout marine, without a cooler of beer he’s never been seen
It’s Don who’s the best, for when I screw up, he takes care of the rest
It’s Art with his clipboard, Keeps us all together
Tinkers with the lineups, the matches are all tossups
Poker is his forte, the drop shot his cachet
It’s been good year after year,
Wouldn’t have it any other way,
Been so long I’ve turned super senior, willing but grey
For me there’s a taste of childhood déjà vu,
Ignored the books, had a misspent youth,
For me it was the tar of playgrounds that held the truth
Had to grow up, had a company to run
Was harried all the time, far from fun
Sold the company, have a chance at a 2nd youth
Joined the senior team and now know my truth
The plush of country clubs is not at par
With the senior team and the sweet smell of tar
Here’s to the team, the team must go on
For winning the playoffs was just a con
There’s something much better than success
It’s being with you guys, you’re still the best.
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