The Two Thousand Dollar Racquetball Trophy: Lose a tournament...lose a reefer
"We are often saved from exclusive addiction to a single vice by the possession of others." LaRochefoucauld, "Maxims."
I started playing racquetball in the late seventies with three of my best friends from high school. And although playing coincided with the seminal stage of our nation's fitness craze, we considered our Tuesday night rendezvous more of a boys night out than exercise. It was two-wall racquetball at the Y in Rome, New York; an hour of novice-class doubles and then beer and burghers at Tosti's. The night was a net caloric gain, but it was a night off. A night I could forget about trucking for three hours--a brief, but oh so pleasant respite.
When the leader of our athletic quartet was temporarily transferred out of the country on a job assignment our Tuesday night affair fizzled. But I was bitten by the racquetball bug and convinced one of the original four to join a racquetball club in Syracuse, New York. I was getting better and I wanted to play with the big boys on real four-walled racquetball courts. We still "celebrated" after our matches, but the games were serious; and at some point the exercise actually became good for me. And I got better. And the better I got the more I wanted to play until...I became addicted to the game.
I began reading racquetball magazines. I started playing three times a week: with somebody I could stomp (John), somebody who was my equal, and somebody better than me--just like the magazines said I should in order to get even better. I started reserving court time just to practice: serves, ceiling shots, down-the-line passes, V-passes, offensive shots, defensive shots until...
I decided I was good enough to play in single eliminatiion racquetball tournaments where, for an entrance fee you got to play, food and beer for the entire weekend, and a tournament tee shirt proclaiming to the ignorant: I am tournament worthy.
My career as a tourney player began at the Meadows in Liverpool, New York. I entered the C class, one step above novice, and won my first match. I lost my second match to the top seed in the class, but I was satisfied with my one and one and decided...
I wanted more tournaments. And the more tournaments I played the better I became. I eventually won a C and moved up into the B class where I usually made it to the quarters, semis, or finals in every tournament I entered. Going deep into the tournaments meant I was spending tourney weekends at various gyms in the Syracuse area and less and less time at the shop where, on weekends, we put our trucks back together for the upcoming week. But I didn't care. I was hooked until...
One Sunday morning Marshall calls me at home to tell me his reefer is knocking. He said he thought it was a fuel knock, but it could be a rod. I told him to bring the unit to the shop and I would look at it later. I did not tell him why it had to be later. It's not cool to tell an employee I'm playing in a racquetball tournament when his refrigeration unit is knocking. He'll think I don't care. And that's not good. Because if I don't care, then why should he care. But I was ADDICTED!
I won my semifinal match, lost the championship match, and hung around for the awards banquet to collect my second place trophy. When I finally made it to the shop early Sunday evening the reefer was off and there was oil all over the ground and deck plate of the tractor. The reefer had thrown a rod. I quickly transferred the load onto another unit and brought the damaged reefer to Thermo King of Syracuse. The second place trophy I had just won cost me two thousand dollars.
Today, I am still playing racquetball. No tournaments and only once a week, but I am still playing. In fact, I have been playing with the same guy once a week for the past twenty-four years. Three games to fifteen and then to Applebee's for beer and wings...and a net caloric disaster on our boys night out. But I wouldn't have it any other way. It's too expensive.
The Highway Reporter
I started playing racquetball in the late seventies with three of my best friends from high school. And although playing coincided with the seminal stage of our nation's fitness craze, we considered our Tuesday night rendezvous more of a boys night out than exercise. It was two-wall racquetball at the Y in Rome, New York; an hour of novice-class doubles and then beer and burghers at Tosti's. The night was a net caloric gain, but it was a night off. A night I could forget about trucking for three hours--a brief, but oh so pleasant respite.
When the leader of our athletic quartet was temporarily transferred out of the country on a job assignment our Tuesday night affair fizzled. But I was bitten by the racquetball bug and convinced one of the original four to join a racquetball club in Syracuse, New York. I was getting better and I wanted to play with the big boys on real four-walled racquetball courts. We still "celebrated" after our matches, but the games were serious; and at some point the exercise actually became good for me. And I got better. And the better I got the more I wanted to play until...I became addicted to the game.
I began reading racquetball magazines. I started playing three times a week: with somebody I could stomp (John), somebody who was my equal, and somebody better than me--just like the magazines said I should in order to get even better. I started reserving court time just to practice: serves, ceiling shots, down-the-line passes, V-passes, offensive shots, defensive shots until...
I decided I was good enough to play in single eliminatiion racquetball tournaments where, for an entrance fee you got to play, food and beer for the entire weekend, and a tournament tee shirt proclaiming to the ignorant: I am tournament worthy.
My career as a tourney player began at the Meadows in Liverpool, New York. I entered the C class, one step above novice, and won my first match. I lost my second match to the top seed in the class, but I was satisfied with my one and one and decided...
I wanted more tournaments. And the more tournaments I played the better I became. I eventually won a C and moved up into the B class where I usually made it to the quarters, semis, or finals in every tournament I entered. Going deep into the tournaments meant I was spending tourney weekends at various gyms in the Syracuse area and less and less time at the shop where, on weekends, we put our trucks back together for the upcoming week. But I didn't care. I was hooked until...
One Sunday morning Marshall calls me at home to tell me his reefer is knocking. He said he thought it was a fuel knock, but it could be a rod. I told him to bring the unit to the shop and I would look at it later. I did not tell him why it had to be later. It's not cool to tell an employee I'm playing in a racquetball tournament when his refrigeration unit is knocking. He'll think I don't care. And that's not good. Because if I don't care, then why should he care. But I was ADDICTED!
I won my semifinal match, lost the championship match, and hung around for the awards banquet to collect my second place trophy. When I finally made it to the shop early Sunday evening the reefer was off and there was oil all over the ground and deck plate of the tractor. The reefer had thrown a rod. I quickly transferred the load onto another unit and brought the damaged reefer to Thermo King of Syracuse. The second place trophy I had just won cost me two thousand dollars.
Today, I am still playing racquetball. No tournaments and only once a week, but I am still playing. In fact, I have been playing with the same guy once a week for the past twenty-four years. Three games to fifteen and then to Applebee's for beer and wings...and a net caloric disaster on our boys night out. But I wouldn't have it any other way. It's too expensive.
The Highway Reporter
posted by The Highway Reporter at 8:50 PM
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