My wife, Melissa, runs a Novice Night tennis clinic in North Dallas once a week for lesbians of limited athletic ability. Many are young and are less concerned about learning the finer points of the Western grip and more concerned about finding a date. Some are married and are just desperate to get out of the house and away from the triplets for a night. Some actually know how to play tennis but are cheap and come because the court is free and they find it enjoyable to get yelled at by Melissa, who turns into a fairly butch drill sergeant in her chosen domain.
The other night Melissa had a huge turnout of 19 novices and assorted others (the record is 20). The weather was lovely. But around 6:30, the sun started going down and the timed lights hadn’t turned on. By 6:45 the whole place was pitch black. Half a dozen ladies who fancied themselves to be the handier ones of the bunch made repeated attempts to flip the light switch—which was already in the On position—to On, to no avail. Several suggested positioning cars toward the court and turning on the headlights. As one of the older ladies had already fallen and claimed to break a wrist earlier in the evening, Melissa declared the night a bust. Six of us decided to go out for beers instead, and the two Addison residents of the group suggested a nearby Irish tavern by the name of Malarkey’s.
When we walked into the bar, we realized we may have made a fatal error. It was Trivia Night. Strangely, even though this bar is a good 45 minutes from our house, Melissa and I recognized people on two different trivia teams. Instead of being equally surprised and/or happy to see us, they appeared to be extremely skeptical as to why we thought we could compete at what was clearly an all-star event, but then were relieved to discover that no, we were not a new skirt-wearing, tennis-themed trivia team, but just wanted Shiner and a pizza. (It was clear why there was some confusion: one team was called The Jedi Knights Who Say “Ni,” and when the announcer announced their name, they all shouted “Ni.”)
Melissa snagged a tall four-top by the bar, but since there were six of us and I was the last to arrive, I found myself standing at the end of the table. The waitress brought beers and we settled in, quickly realizing that we were getting dirty looks for checking our phones, which apparently was forbidden for those trying to determine which Philadelphia University had the most prestigious alumni.
While Melissa was regaling the group with tales of her latest 4.0 singles victory, we were approached by an 80-year-old gentleman named Harold. He had had a good 65 years to refine his game, so the dude was smooth. He led with compliments about “all the lovely ladies” and then, with a seductive Texas drawl, told an extended joke about a bobcat and a herd of cattle that ended with the punchline, “When your mouth is full of bull, just keep it shut.”
Now, you may not know this, but men of a certain age are attracted to redheads like moths to a flame. I think it has something to do with World War II pinups. So I quickly realized that Harold had his eye on my wife. But next thing I know, as six lovely ladies are laughing politely at his joke, Harold sidles up behind me at the end of the table and proceeds to give me an uncomfortably extended back rub. The kind I once litigated a sexual harassment case over.
Yada yada yada, Harold kissed my wife on the mouth on the way out.
Only thing smoother would have been if he bought the beers.
