White Trash Tennis

I love tennis.  Ever since I was a little kid hitting the tennis ball against the garage door, I have been obsessed with the sport.  I have also been known to spend hours in front of the television watching tennis tournaments.  It doesn’t hurt that I especially like the hot male players in tight white shorts (Yes, I’m referring to you, Novak Djokovic), but that’s another topic.

As much as I enjoy tennis, however, I tend to get a little competitive when I play. Okay, a little competitive is a major understatement.  I get incredibly into the game and very upset when I lose a point.

This is why I refused to play varsity tennis in high school.  The coach wanted me to play doubles because they felt my skills weren’t strong enough to play singles.  I told them I don’t share the court with anyone and walked away.

Fast-forward to present day.  The high school stubbornness and competitive streak have not diminished.  If anything, they’ve increased.  Case in point: white trash tennis. Let me explain.

Poor CF.  He and I started playing tennis a couple of years ago, right after we started going out.  He talked his skills down, saying he never really played and wasn’t that good.  I, however, did the complete opposite.  All I did was brag about how I could have played varsity tennis but turned them down and I would proceed to kick his butt all over the court.

Well, let’s just say I ate my words faster than a hungry person grabbing food in a buffet line.  I wasn’t just losing, I was being humiliated.  He kept saying they were lucky shots, and I kept telling him to shut up.

This is how the white trash tennis began and continues today.  There is no etiquette when we play.  I can’t tell you how frustrating it is to have other people next to you playing when all you want to do is curse like a sailor.

That’s when I have to get creative and use innuendos and hidden finger gestures to get my frustration across.  If there are kids around, forget it.  I then end up with all this pent-up frustration that either gets vented on the car ride home or comes out later in the evening.

Thank goodness CF finds this all very entertaining.  Every time I say “son of a bitch” when I miss a shot or lose a point, he looks to the heavens and tells his Mom that it’s okay, I’m not talking about her.  I can’t even print the rest of the words that spew from my mouth. Well, I could, but then this would become a white trash blog and I am so above that….