The Next Serve

Happy Kid

If you're around my age, you probably remember the Husky department in the department stores. That's where my mom bought my jeans when I was a kid. I remember standing there looking across the aisle at the clothes the other boys were wearing and wondering why I couldn't wear those. Looking back at pictures today, I don't think I was nearly as heavy as I believed I was. But when you're eleven years old, you don't have much perspective. You just know you're shopping in a different part of the store than everyone else.

My parents eventually took me to a pediatrician because they were worried about my weight. She didn't put me on some crazy diet or make me feel guilty. Instead, she handed me a small notebook and asked me to write down everything I ate. Every meal. Every snack. Every cookie. Every two weeks I'd bring it back, we'd talk about it for a few minutes, and then she'd hand me another blank notebook to fill. It did help me lose weight.

That was more than fifty years ago, and I honestly hadn't thought about those notebooks in decades. Then, a few weeks ago, my nutritionist, Candice, at Doghouse Fitness gave me an assignment. She didn't ask me to count calories or track protein. She simply said, "You love to write, write one of your blogs about food."

I figured I'd write about eating lunch while driving from one appointment to another. I'd probably write about wandering into the kitchen before bed even though I wasn't all that hungry. Maybe I'd write about trying to lose weight (somewhat succesfully) for the last year and a half or how alcohol seems to convince me that grabbing a handful of pretzels is somehow a perfectly reasonable idea. It all seemed pretty straightforward.

Instead, I kept thinking about racquetball.

When I was in junior high school, my older brother and a few of his friends worked at the Evanston Court Club. I wanted a job, so I became a towel boy. I washed and folded towels, cleaned the mens and women's restrooms, emptied garbage cans, and did whatever else needed to be done. The older guys all played racquetball, and after watching them for a while, I started wondering if I could play too. I'd been a pretty good baseball player growing up and had always been blessed with good hand-eye coordination. I figured maybe those skills would transfer. There was only one way to find out.

They did.

Before long, I wasn't just playing after work. I was playing every chance I got. I started competing, and before I was even out of high school, I was teaching lessons at the club. My friends and I practically lived there. We'd show up on a Saturday mornings, play until we were exhausted, grab something to eat, and head right back onto the court. We'd look at the clock and realize it was one or two in the morning. If our parents couldn't find us, they knew exactly where to go.

As I sat trying to write about food, I realized something that had never occurred to me before. During all those years I spent at the club, I honestly don't remember thinking much about food at all. I'm sure I ate. We all did. I just don't remember it being important because my mind was completely occupied with something else.

There was always another serve to hit, another rally to win, another opponent to beat, another lesson to teach, or another friend waiting for the next game. I wasn't thinking about tomorrow's schedule or replaying yesterday's mistakes. I wasn't wondering what needed fixing around the house or worrying about work. For a few hours, my brain stayed in one place, and that one place was the four walls of a racquetball court. It was a concrete fortress where all your belongings and responsibilities where left outside on the ledge of the court.

My life doesn't work that way anymore.

These days I make a healthy lunch in the morning, throw it in a cooler, and usually eat it while driving to my next appointment. Even when I'm doing CrossFit, one of the few places where I genuinely enjoy myself, my phone is nearby because a client might need me.

When I get home, my brain shifts from work to Greenland Sharks, then to the house, then to tomorrow, then back to work again. By the time I'm getting ready for bed, I'm somehow standing in the kitchen wondering why I'm eating peanut butter when I'm not even hungry.

The more I thought about it, the less convinced I became that food was really the story Candice had asked me to write. Food just happened to be the trail she sent me down. The place it led me was somewhere completely different.

It led me back to a racquetball court.

I'm not saying racquetball is the answer to anything. I don't have some grand lesson about taking up old hobbies or finding my passion again. I also don't know if there's any connection at all between being completely absorbed in something and not thinking about food. Maybe there isn't.

I do know this, though. There was a time in my life when hours could disappear without me noticing because I was so focused on the next serve. I miss that feeling more than I miss being seventeen. Maybe that's what surprised me most about this assignment. I sat down expecting to write about food, and somehow I ended up writing about the one place where food hardly crossed my mind at all.

Maybe that's the story I was supposed to find.

---

About Greenland Sharks

Greenland Sharks is a Chicago men's group who value friendship, experiences, and the long swim. Just a crew that shows up. No speeches. No name tags. No nonsense.

Learn more about Greenland Sharks