In the first gay tennis tournament I played, the 2002 Liberty Open in New York, my first round opponent was a very nice older gentleman whose joints and limbs were strapped, supported and cinched to an extent I hadn't seen outside of a Mid-Atlantic Leather Weekend leather and fetish market. At the time, I was 34 and only recently returned to tennis -- the last tournament I had played was circa 1985 as a 17-year-old -- and I couldn't imagine playing tennis with so many devices. How could you move? How could you swing at the ball?
Pretty well, as it turned out. He ran out to a 5-love lead before I gathered myself and won the set in a tiebreaker, and then the match. But then he went on to knock me out of three consecutive semi-final doubles matches in tournaments over the following year.
Anyway, these days I know exactly how you move while so extravagantly strapped up: very carefully. Now it takes me longer to get ready to play tennis than it takes a high school girl to prep for the prom. How bad is it these days? From toe to head, it goes like this:
1. Right ankle brace. As mentioned before, I've turned this ankle a few times, and now I have no real choice but to wear a brace every time I play. I would wear shoes with more ankle support, but I can't find a model with enough cushioning to avoid giving me stabbing hip pain. So ankle brace it is.
2. Right knee support. Due to my lax (okay, non-existent) physical training regimen during my late twenties and early thirties, my kneecaps run off track. That means when I do knee bends I generate more snap, crackle and pop than a big bowl of Rice Krispies. So now I wear a supportive brace that makes my leg look a sausage in a way-too-small casing. Pretty.
3. Left knee strap. Worse than the whole popping knee thing, I've developed a nasty case of tendinitis that relieves the pain just enough to allow me to actually bend my knee. As long as I take a handful of Aleve along with it.
4. Right arm. A compression strap for my tendinitis, which was so bad during the summer that hitting a volley of even moderate pace sent spikes of pain through the whole arm. Take a break to heal? Please. Play through the pain, baby, play through the pain.
Toss in an double-sized wrist band on both sides and a broad headband, and I have the world's absolute worst tan lines.
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