Whack it! Ball

We thought it looked fun. It would be a sport we could share, we agreed. Plus, there were the benefits of exercise. So, we signed up to take a few lessons, swinging our racket ball rackets impatiently as we listened to Bob explain the finer points of the game. The truth is: put a racket in my hand and I just want to hit something, I don't want to listen. It was harder than it looked, and we spent hours striking out in every direction like twin windmills run amuck, trying to anticipate where the blasted ball would bounce next. 

"Try not to hit the ball over your heads to avoid shoulder injury," Bob instructed.


"Right!" we grunted, flailing wildly. We caromed off the walls. We collided. We fell to the hard wooden floor, limbs tangled, howling with laughter. 


We bought special sneakers: white with removable colored plastic chevrons. Red for Juan and green for me.


There is something about a racket sport that ignites an aggressive streak in me. I play to win and, as I suspected, so does Juan the Gardener. It began with the rules. 


"If I hit myself with the ball first, is that my point or yours?" Juan asked.


"Mine," I said.


"It wouldn't be a do-over?"


"No."


If we couldn't agree, we went to the front desk like two children to have a grown-up decide. One of us might say, "Ah ha!" if she were right. We limped from the court after an hour's combat, gingerly kneading our shoulders, our necks torqued.


"Isn't racket ball kind of hard on the body?" concerned friends questioned.


"Nah!" we said.


Once, one of us hit the other deliberately.


"That's it! I think we have to break up," I said dramatically.


"No, we don't!  I'm sorry. I just lost it. It can be your point."


I didn't heed Bob's warning about hitting the ball low, because smashing an overhead with all my strength felt so delicious, so within a few weeks I couldn't lift my right arm above my shoulder. Massage didn't help, but two months of bi-weekly physical therapy did. 


Now, seven months later, we're back at it. We've gotten better. We play the angles; we vary our serves. Juan has a sneaky serve that glides along the wall and slides down, rendering a return impossible. When he uses it, I want to bash something. We wear plastic goggles for protection, which proved to be a good thing since recently the ball hit me dead on between the eyes, leaving a red indentation. Yesterday in the midst of a skirmish, a loud thunk! sounded behind me. I made the shot first, then spun around. Juan was prostrate on the floor.


"What happened?" I asked, trying hard not to grin until I had assessed the damage.


"I hit my head on the wall and bounced off," Juan explained.


"Are you okay?" I asked. I rubbed his poor sweaty head and offered him a hand up.


"I'm fine," he panted. "Did you get it?"


"Yeah, I did." 


We quit at two games each, but I've been wondering: is this a game for two Buddhists who believe in practicing basic goodness and non-aggression?


Last night after showers and quesadillas, we sat together on the couch and watched baseball. Juan held the clicker.


"If you rub my shoulder, we can watch the Yankees," he said. "If you don't, we watch the Red Sox."


Is there a grown-up in the house?