Last Spring I attended a celebrity tennis charity event at the Fitzgerald Center in Washington D.C. I am neither a celebrity, nor big on charity, but someone gave me an invite and since it was for a good cause, of which I can’t seem to remember, I decided to go as I had nothing better to do. I figured I might as well go and hit some pansy balls with some government photo-op seekers and local tennis stalkers as a warm-up for a later, evening match with some real tennis players (middle age hackers from Northern Virginia USTA).

It was a pretty laid back affair, with snacks, a few round-robins and a chance to hit with a surprise guest – the tennis great, Andre Agassi. When the “Great One” arrived, everyone muddled around him like eager puppies, with mouths agape and drooling. It was pathetic.  Everyone was dressed in their newest Prince, Fila and Elisse attire, wanting a picture with Andre and/or autograph. Geez, this was really embarrassing; me in my Haight-Ashbury tee-shirt and OP surfing shorts. Mayor Fente of the District made a brief speech about god-knows-what and local Weatherman Bob Ryan, I believe, was lighting a doobie behind the Channel 4 news van.

When it came time for drills with the retired legend, all the ladies were first in line, hitting exquisitely posed volleys to Andre, while he gently lobbed them back for them to smash. Man, this was ridiculous! What a waste of time, I thought. Wanting to hurry back home to my soap operas, I butted in line, risking having my eyes clawed out, which I nearly did. In any case, Andre was very polite and obliged my turn to hit. The pro on the side of the net fed me a ball, and I leveled a deep, heavy topspin forehand at Agassi, who was hugging the baseline, a bit too close for my taste.  I ease into my graceful split-step with all the instructional form I’d picked up (over the last three years) and eagerly waited for his sissy lob reply.

The next few minutes were a bit of a blur, but I believe I saw him recoil his body effortlessly and turn his shoulders towards that two handed signature backhand and step forward, all in one deft motion. To be honest, I never even saw the ball, but I felt the impact square upon my chest, and I’d thought I had been taken out by a sniper. When I recovered consciousness several minutes later and after the medics had put away the smelling salts, Agassi was already engaging in autographs and the drill was over. “You d$#&!” I said or thought I said, but no one heard me.

I picked up my racket and left in a hurry, not remembering how or why I was even at this stupid affair, and I did not get an autograph; just a tennis ball sized tattoo planted squarely in the center of my chest, next to my other one that spelled “take that.”