Cleaning up after our family’s dinnertime Taco Fest, I was stationed in front of the sink.  That’s when I noticed a buzz in the backyard.  It appeared as if Charlene was taking the boys to the park to play tennis.  I kept on cleaning.  Sudsy bubbles floated over my hands and NPR’s “The World” talked on the radio.  They kept on planning their excursion.  Then as they were about to leave and I was on my final dishes, 6-year-old Ben approached me with a welcoming question, “We are going to play tennis.  Would you like to come?”

Ah, tennis.  A sport of my youth.  Not that I was ever any good at it.  On the contrary, I had a legendarily bad style about me.  In college, my friends captured my style best with the nickname “Downtown Dave.”  Yes, I would hit the tennis ball so hard and with such little regard for the lines on the court that it looked like I was hitting the ball toward “downtown.”  That ball would streak past my opponent and smack into the chain link fence behind the court.  “Downtown,” a great nickname for someone studying city management.  It was clear however that it had nothing to do with economic development know how, but rather my crazed swing.

My roommate Steve also pointed out that I only hit the ball backhanded.  I would watch the ball coming toward my side of the court and then position myself to swat at it with my backhand.  If the ball was moving slow enough, I would even run completely around the ball to whack it backhand.  Strange at best, pitiful at worst.

No, pitiful better described my serve.  In order to get the ball within the white boundaries, I would gently tap the ball.  It appeared as if it was lifted in the air by butterflies and gently delivered by angels.  Graceful at best, but very clearly pitiful, let’s not sugarcoat it.

Any who, I happily drained the dishwater and joined my family.  During the next hour, I realized a few things.  It had been about 20 years since I had played Charlene in tennis and while Charlene has retained her athletic physic and prowess, I appear to have leapt to size XL by eating someone who was wearing a size small.  What kind of monster had I become?  I’ll tell you what, a clever monster.  With my trusty backhand and butterfly kissed serve.  I was able to take home the Paulsen family tennis outing championship.  Now mind you, this feat is sort of like winning “Best Dancer” at the annual gathering of the “Society for the Rhythmically Challenged.”  By the way, I am a member of that group, although I have never come close to winning the title of “Best Dancer” in any way, shape, or form.  Tonight however, I did okay at tennis.

There I was, lumbering about on the tennis court.  Admiring my beautiful wife.  Enjoying the company of my playful children.  Soaking in a lovely summer evening.  That’s when I was reminded that after 20 years, I still love my wife as much as Day One.  Much like one of my favorite quotes from the television show “House of Cards,” “I love her like a shark loves blood.”  Well not in that creepy sort of way, but you get the idea.

There was my Charlene.  Having fun.  Embracing life.  Loving her family.  I smiled at the moment, even as I circled the ball to return a shot with my trusty backhand.