Watching doubles tennis with little familiarity on the subject (though many have tried to change that, and failed) was like watching a game devised by two children who have taken the lesson of sharing to heart - gracefully rotating who gets to start with the ball and who stands in which spot - but then needed an outlet for the stress of their good behavior. I'm watching up in the balcony with the middle-aged men drinking twist-off beer out of a mini cooler and talking in what I can only assume is code. Terrified that they'll try to engage me in some tennis talk, I focus intently on my notebook before me and write a snarky observation. Then I get nervous that one of them will peer over my shoulder and decipher my blank ink scrawl, so I use my other hand to cover my words while I continue to write my sarcastic commentary on their sport.
The men, of course, continue watching the game and pay no attention to me.
Down below, everyone's lower back appears to hurt - they keep putting their fist on it right before somebody serves, but the consistency across teams serves as a point of confusion. Maybe next time I'll listen to a "Stuff You Should Know" podcast while watching. It probably won't be tennis-related.
I text sample dialogue of "1,2,1,1" to a knowledgeable friend, who translates: "It means he's losing. You always call the set score (1-2), then the game score (1-1), then the score within the game. He must have been starting a new game."
Armed with this new bit of knowledge I try to partake mentally in the tennis talk around me, but it's exactly like listening to a foreign language - if they go too fast (i.e., not slow) they lose me.
Via messages less than 140 characters, my friend explains how to figure out where they're at in the game, and who is winning. But I figure I'll just wait until they're kicked off for the next game & then check people's facial expression. This plan goes swimmingly until I realize, one, they're the last game of the night, and two, they've hit overtime. I know this because my foreign-speaking friends are now leaning against the railing and blocking my view from the chair. Deciding to somewhat legitimize myself, I stand up and alternate between leaning on the railing and using the wall to support me in my attempt to not fall asleep, awake an hour past my 9:30 bedtime.
Something happens on the court, and I don't think we've won. The opponents shake hands, a universal end-of-game sign that I recognize easily, and I size up my friends' faces. Yep, we lost. I say hello to them after the game, and that's about all I've got. I don't know any post-tennis game small talk.
I drive home, part of that time spent blissfully ignorant on the wrong side of the road until I see an incoming car in my lane.
