Sawfish is that you?

[The Iceberg]

Sounds like this dude was Sawfish :D

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-weekend-essay/notes-on-losing

I stuck around and practiced some serves after my partner limped off.
Before long, an older man poked his head through the fence and asked if
I wanted to hit around. He was a type often found throughout California,
stalking outdoor courts in constant search of some action. These men
dress in what amounts to a uniform: commemorative T-shirts from fun
runs, old nylon shorts, baseball caps with a decade’s worth of sweat
baked into the brim. Their arms are all sinew and tan; their legs are
thin and often hairless.

This one was seventy years old and a poet. We started up the creaky
squeezebox of amateur tennis warmups, which involve a lot of apologies
and running after errant shots. Having seen my partner go down, I wasn’t
too keen on doing anything but lazily swatting the ball back and forth,
but it was clear that the poet was after something else, angling his low
forehand into the corners.

He asked if I wanted to play a set, and I reluctantly agreed. I could
already see what was going to happen. I play what could charitably be
called an optimistic, aesthetic style: I hit every first serve as hard
as I can, chip my drop shots exactly two inches over the net, and torque
my forehand to maximize topspin. What this really means is that I end up
sending most balls either into the net, off the frame, or high into the
air—there is nothing quite as dispiriting as watching a framed ball
flutter twenty feet over your head, or a good five feet past the
baseline. The poet, on the other hand, returned my efforts with his
signature flat, low shot, which always seemed to find its way in bounds.
I was going to unforced-error myself to death.

There’s no real reason to describe the events of the next half hour.
Just know that I lost the set, 6–2. The poet calmly placed his shots in
the corners, and told me about his prowess on the seventy-plus circuit.
All the really good players, he said, lived around Sacramento, and he
went looking for matches there when he really wanted a challenge. After
he finished me off with yet another smartly smacked ball, he thanked me
for playing.

[Sawfish]

Post by The Iceberg
Sounds like this dude was Sawfish :D
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-weekend-essay/notes-on-losing
I stuck around and practiced some serves after my partner limped off.
Before long, an older man poked his head through the fence and asked
if I wanted to hit around. He was a type often found throughout
California, stalking outdoor courts in constant search of some action.
These men dress in what amounts to a uniform: commemorative T-shirts
from fun runs, old nylon shorts, baseball caps with a decade’s worth
of sweat baked into the brim. Their arms are all sinew and tan; their
legs are thin and often hairless.
This one was seventy years old and a poet. We started up the creaky
squeezebox of amateur tennis warmups, which involve a lot of apologies
and running after errant shots. Having seen my partner go down, I
wasn’t too keen on doing anything but lazily swatting the ball back
and forth, but it was clear that the poet was after something else,
angling his low forehand into the corners.
He asked if I wanted to play a set, and I reluctantly agreed. I could
already see what was going to happen. I play what could charitably be
called an optimistic, aesthetic style: I hit every first serve as hard
as I can, chip my drop shots exactly two inches over the net, and
torque my forehand to maximize topspin. What this really means is that
I end up sending most balls either into the net, off the frame, or
high into the air—there is nothing quite as dispiriting as watching a
framed ball flutter twenty feet over your head, or a good five feet
past the baseline. The poet, on the other hand, returned my efforts
with his signature flat, low shot, which always seemed to find its way
in bounds. I was going to unforced-error myself to death.
There’s no real reason to describe the events of the next half hour.
Just know that I lost the set, 6–2. The poet calmly placed his shots
in the corners, and told me about his prowess on the seventy-plus
circuit. All the really good players, he said, lived around
Sacramento, and he went looking for matches there when he really
wanted a challenge. After he finished me off with yet another smartly
smacked ball, he thanked me for playing.

Hah! Hah!

Which one: the old guy or the choker? :^)

I think the guy who wrote the article is hopelessly over-thinking
things, don't you?

BTW, when I was younger, I did play against guys like the poet, and I
had just a hell of a time with them, too. I finally figured out that
with most of them, they fed me balls that I very seldom saw, and so had
no real practice in optimizing my strokes against them. I practiced with
guys my own age or younger. Everyone hit as much TS as they could
generate, as hard as they reasonably could, and that's what I saw almost
all the time, except from these old guys.

But the writer, he *way* overthinks stuff WRT tennis, in my opinion.