wimbledon

I am about as uncoordinated as an ostrich on roller skates. And, if I were to ever get on roller skates again (which I will never do) I'm sure I'd resemble the head-n-sand bird as well. Which is a long way of saying that I cannot play tennis. AT ALL. I have tried and tried and sweaty sweated tried. Nope. No hand-eye coordination to be found here.

But oh my goodness tennis is a beautiful game. My Daddy taught me that. Some of my sweestest memories are of watching tennis with my dad. And, sometimes, with my grandpa, Papa Joe. Papa Joe loved Martina Navratilova. My daddy was Steffi Graf all the way. Oh, and one of the few times daddy ever raised his voice was when we (me + sisters) were making too much noise during one of the Borg/McEnroe matches.

We were totally not a tennis family. No country club, no tennis courts in our life. I never knew anyone in real life who played tennis. Except for my dad, who did so very very intermittently. He would let me use his racket in those tennis outbursts that I would get after watching Wimbledon all day. Me and my dad's giant racket bouncing worn out old tennis balls against the freezer door in the carport.

I was sure (in my 10 year old brain) that I would go to Wimbledon and eat strawberries and cream.That will never happen. But I'm watching Wimbledon this week and I hope my Daddy gets to watch it too.