Court Shoes or Snowshoes?
By: Jim Couper
Most players find it dispiriting to reach into a snow bank to retrieve a tennis ball: the fingers freeze, the yellow orb has the flex of a billiard ball and, when served, the crispy outer coating forms a roostertail of winter detritus that makes receivers fear for their eyesight. It’s a moot point because the subsequent serve will most likely hit the net. When the temperature dips below freezing, tennis balls don’t have much zip and the net is higher because it has contracted in the cold.
Despite this, we arrive in mid-December at the public tennis courts in Kelowna, British Columbia, Canada, armed with kitty litter, shovels, salt, scrapers, sand and brooms. We also bring racquets and balls.
Our overweight baggage is necessitated by our determination to play tennis 365. Rock salt melts the insidious patches of ice that hide on the painted white lines where heat is reflected rather than absorbed; brooms and shovels dispatch accumulations of snow; while sand and kitty litter give the best traction when the afternoon sun refuses to melt the last few flakes of snow. Last year one of our ecologically committed players pulled a tray from her car and declared she was going to recycle her feline’s litter. Shouts of “No shit,” quickly ensued.
When we shovel snow from one of the courts at the recreation center there is no guarantee we will be able to play because it often takes another day for the sun to clear up the last white dregs that cling to the surface like frost to a pumpkin. We invest in late Thursday clearing for weekend rewards, but Friday may bring a dump of fresh snow or a spatter of sleet and a mouthful of curses.
To play winter tennis north of the 49th parallel one has to be flexible mentally as well as physically. Last season we failed to get the ice and snow off one-third of our favourite court so we adapted to a narrow area of play and developed a claustrophobic fore and aft style of doubles that included some clear space behind the baseline.
Some obsessive competitors consider it good strategy to direct shots towards icy patches and white spots, but such ill-mannered players are thwarted by our winter rule: anyone who slips or has the good sense not to chase a shot that is headed for a small ice-rink has the option of shouting “danger” and choosing not to play the shot. We redo the point.
Our summer group of nearly 30 dwindles to a devoted half-dozen doubles players in the dark depths of winter. The majority of those who don’t take their tennis to Arizona and Florida refuse to risk hips, backs and legs with an untimely fall on an unpredictable surface. Although several of us have hit the deck, no one has suffered a permanent injury although our friends and spouses suspect brain damage. We kiss the concrete no less frequently in summer.
One of our worries when heading for the courts is that outsiders will be playing on the surface that we lovingly cleared a day or two before. Rather than beat them off with our brooms we put up a sign that boldly states, “Bring a shovel; clear another.” The sign has produced no energetic shovellers, but it appears to have discouraged interlopers. Or perhaps we are delusional about the popularity of tennis when the snow flies.
The temperature tests hardiness. Most people drop their shorts and replace them with long-legged pants within a month of the first freeze. Willy, AKA Frosty, refuses to submit to convention and proudly displays his goose-bumped, bare lower limbs throughout the winter. Dressing in layers is essential to winter comfort and Mikey wears at least 10 of them. By mid-afternoon he has shed most and his end of the court looks like a garage sale.
“Aren’t you cold?” people ask on hearing of our avidness. We answer with questions. Are skiers cold? What about skaters, tobogganers and unfriendly people? Certainly it’s chilly to start, but once we run around and bump into each other a few times we warm up. The friction from rotating a racquet in the hand can manufacture warmth for the digits, but the habit of blowing warm air onto the hand freezes it to the racquet. In general Canadians play outdoor tennis in winter with the same frequency as they pick oranges and coconuts in Manitoba.
Sunglasses are complementary to winter tennis. This is not for disguise, but to deal with the sun that lurks low on the horizon. During play, two yellow orbs frequently float before our eyes and while only one can be hit, we often swing at both. The low sun brings out unexpected characteristics in players. Yvette, normally a pleasant, agreeable player, returns high lobs whenever Sol is at her back. Even with dark glasses the best defence is to wander like a lost puppy and spring into action when the ball is located by the thump of it landing on the court; preferably not in the back corner.
When the thermometer falls below freezing the icy balls lose much of their bounce so it’s like playing tennis with a potato. We deal with this by tucking two balls into a pants’ pocket so they can soak up body heat. When we go home we have two circles of frostbite on our thighs and a pocket full of damp kitty litter.
Our icy tennis games draw more spectators than in summer and it isn’t because of our stellar play. A dozen dog-walkers and other strollers linger as if the walls of the asylum have suddenly become transparent and they can watch the inmates at play. We do not consider our addictive behaviour to be a problem. Tennisphilia is not, as yet, listed as a psychological disorder.