How to buy a tennis racquet

I found playing tennis much easier twenty years ago. If you’re thinking, “This fellow was likely in his twenties twenty years ago; he must’ve found everything – including walking and breathing – easier then,” you’re right. But it’s not just running and hitting the ball that I find more difficult – it’s coping with the advances in technology that have invaded the game.
 

Twenty years ago, I would buy a tennis racquet in ten minutes. The shopkeeper would show me a couple of Dunlop models (in wood); I’d choose one and tell him my grip size. Things are vastly different today. I recently went to a large sporting shop to buy a new tennis racquet. I found at least five major brands, each made of different material, with varying head sizes. They were also different in weight and how this weight was distributed. I had to not only examine light and heavy racquets but also light ones that were head-heavy and heavy ones that were head-light. The salesman, true to form, was not able to offer any help except to suggest that I research the internet.

So I returned home and did this. “Choosing a tennis racquet,” I typed into Google and pursued the first hit. According to tennis-warehouse.com, I needed to consider Head Size, Length, Weight and Balance, Frame Stiffness, String Pattern and Grip/Handle Systems. I didn’t know where to start. Even buying an aeroplane wouldn’t involve as many factors, I thought. 

Losing hair

There was a time when making polite conversation used to mean talking about innocuous topics, like the weather for example. When I met a friend, he’d remark:

“Hi Paddy. Very hot weather we’re having lately, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mike,” I’d say (if his name were Mike). And I might comment about the sharp difference in weather between Singapore and Chicago.

Alternatively we would talk about sports. He might ask me if I watched last night’s tennis match between Nadal and Federer and whether I agreed with him that it was awesome. I would answer both questions in the affirmative and go on to compare the match with another one the two gentlemen played last year.

Or it could be movies. Or politics. You get the idea.

While these topics are innocuous, there is a school of thought that says they lack zing, that they are boring, precisely because they are innocuous. Books have been written on the subject, with titles like How to Convert a Conversation into a Friendship. To save you the cost of buying one and then the torture of reading it, let me summarize the wisdom it will impart:

Magical Orlando

It’s a long way from Singapore to Orlando, but when I fly on the impeccable Singapore Airlines, time flies too. After 19 hours of non-stop pampering, I landed in New York, and by trotting briskly, was lucky to squeeze into a Continental Airlines flight earlier than planned.

My luck did not extend to getting a glorious seat. Squashed between two comfortably-built ladies who had already laid claim to the armrests, I tucked my elbows in and sat upright, but despite the cramped position, fell asleep. When I awoke, I was pleased that we were in the air but dismayed that my neighbours had both been served dinner, which surprisingly looked edible. The two flight attendants – grim arm wrestlers in their fifties – were several feet ahead serving others. There was a call button above my seat to summon service but in America, this is purely ornamental. You never actually press it, unless you’re ready to take on the stewardess in unarmed combat. So I watched in agony as my companions devoured sandwiches, chips and cookies with relish.

In my hotel room at 11 p.m., having reduced a giant sandwich to mere crumbs, I went to bed but couldn’t go to sleep. I tried lying on my back, my side and my stomach (one at a time). I even tried sitting upright with elbows tucked in. But sleep wouldn’t come. My body was still sweltering in the mid-morning heat of Singapore.

Shanghai – a city reaching for the sky

The Shanghai immigration officer briskly stamps my passport, smiles and presses a button. A panel on the counter lights up, inviting me to rate his service. I press “Very Satisfied” like others did before me. Perhaps he smiles and moves fast only for the sake of the rating; perhaps he is intrinsically grumpy and slow; but perhaps that is the point.

Outside, another smiling Chinese drives me to the city. He is keen to share knowledge about Shanghai and I’m keen to imbibe it, but we make little headway.

“Pledges,” he says, nodding and pointing vaguely to the left, “Hangpu pledge, Nanpu pledge… many pledges.” 

I’m thinking pledges are ancient Buddhist teachings by venerable monks. I conjure up an image of a Buddhist temple, with sacred shrines amidst quiet green lawns and shady trees. Closing my eyes, I can almost smell the incense…

“Pledge!” the driver cries. 

I look to where he points. A modern structure looms over the river.

“Bridge!” I say.