Our senior team -- -- -- introduction

In 2005 our tennis team made it to the national finals.  The Columbia Maryland based USTA tennis team first won the regional championship then prevailed in the Maryland state championships and then went to the district playoffs.  In the district playoffs the middle Atlantic tennis teams compete -- -- the state champions from Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, and Washington DC play a winner take all tournament.  Our team won the districts and then proceeded to the national playoffs in Palm Springs California where teams from 17 regions of the United States play for the national trophy.  

Turned out we won several rounds and landed up in the semifinals losing to the eventual champion -- -- we finished as the fourth best team in the United States.

What made all of this interesting was the drama leading up to it.  For about six years previous we had all but won at districts but found some magical way to lose -- -- it was as if there was some underlying mantra keeping this from breaking through to the national championship.  

It seemed some unspoken theme played out year after year -- -- and we were totally frustrated with our incomplete seasons.

The poem was written a year before we went to nationals  -- -- I felt the need to express this 'Casey at the bat' mentality in poetic form.  The magnificent team that somehow doesn't make it was becoming our yearly script, playing out over and over. 

 I felt like the ice had to be broken --- I wrote a pithy irreverent poem to unlock the 'magnificent but find a way to lose' programing. 

they had players who hardly knew each other and all came from different tennis clubs.What made this team special is that it was a neighborhood team that had played together for years, more than twenty years.  All of the other teams that went to nationals were recruited -- -- 

 When a team went to nationals it had to be broken up -- -- so as not to dominate its local league the team members all had to be dispersed on to different teams. 

And that was the underlying subconscious plot being played out!  The team members did not want to be broken up so each year we found a magical way to lose.

This issue is hard --- all the technique, practicing, conditioning in the world wouldn't undo this mantra.  A powerful unspoken destiny was in fact gaining strength year-by-year and no tennis technique was going to undo it.  The more we're practice to overcome the hurdle the more we bonded and the unspoken 'togetherness' agenda had a tighter grip.  

Something bigger then tennis was needed  --- a poem that could reorient our mindset -- -- we had to see things in a new way and break free from what was holding us back.

I wrote the poem at the end of the 2004 season, the team captain gave all 14 members of the team a plaque with the poem inscribed.  The poem addressed our unspoken elephant in the room, the ‘togetherness’ spell was undone and the lyrics had the desired effect-- -- the following year we broke the losing mentality and went to the nationals. 

Our Senior Team, The Hope and the Dream

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.