Regrets

Parents are full of regrets, not all of which they relate to their children.  With Clare, I don’t mind that we passed on having her join a swim club or play basketball.  Tennis is another story.

All through high school, I tried to make myself into a tennis player.  My friend Bob and I would walk or bike the mile-and-a-half to Marquette Park and wait out the Lithuanian emigres who tried to monopolize the courts.  Then we proceeded to stink the place up.  If either of us could have hit a baseball as far as we hit tennis balls, we would have had ourselves nice little careers in professional baseball.  As it was, Bob and I eventually turned more to academics.

My pretty-bad experience no doubt influenced my reaction to Clare wanting to learn to play.  For two summers in grade school, she went to the camp the high school ran; the coach encouraged her to play.  Clare had the power and the one-step quickness to do well.  But nothing’s cheap in life, and we had to pick what we thought was her best sport.  She ended up still hitting a ball, only with a bat instead of a racket.

The Wimbledon finals coincide with the Fourth of July holiday; Michele and Clare will root for Serena Williams, as they always do.  And I’ll try not to feel guilty about a decision made years ago.