Hierarchy of Balls

My maiden voyage into blogging about tennis was appropriately titled, "The Secret Life of Virgin Tennis Balls".  It describes those new, tough girls that unleash their power upon emerging from the tight quarters of their tubular cribs.

It seems logical to next address another member of the tennis ball community, working class balls, and their place in the hierarchy.  Make no mistake, there is a hierarchy of balls.  From the underprivileged, no name, thin skinned waifs offered in mesh bags in bulk, like some kind of underfunded orphans (doomed to a life of canine abuse) to the country club set of balls, offered to members only, that flaunt their plush coats and family crests.

There are even designer tennis balls, whose pedigrees may be questionable, but whose outward appearance is fashionable, even runway worthy, in their leopard skin print or two-tone neon orange and purple--the attention-getters among balls.  Sadly, they are often sheltered and put on high with no opportunity to mingle, let alone PLAY with others.  Like toddlers in tiaras they are put on display, never to touch the grid-dy face of a racquet, guarded as they are.  Always on the inside looking out.  Shelved for life, they never feel the freedom that their high flying sisters have.  They never experience the exhilaration of a launch that results in traveling 136 miles per hour. 

It's the working class balls, the veterans, that see the most action.  Day in, day out they show up for work ready and able to begin their repetitive duties: depart one side of the court, fly low at bullet speed across to the other side.  Again and again and again.  Compliant whipping boys willing to take a beating, they obediently engage in ball to racquet combat, plunging (often with immense force) over the net and between the lines.  They are the unsung heroes, excused after battle, hurried out of the arena by ball wranglers (a.k.a. ball boys and girls) without so much as a "thank you".

When the trophies are presented these guys are out of sight.  They receive no credit for their dare devil flights, their smash landings or tactical top spinning.  There's no mention of the strategic way they strike the net to drop sneakily to the ground, fooling the racquet-wielding humans and the gasping spectators.

Not long after their most triumphant feats they are retired to ball communes at community centers or junior colleges, haphazardly tossed into a wire basket or the chute of a cannon where they quickly experience diminished inner strength and irrecoverable loss of fuzz.  A few are re-commissioned in pairs to pose as bumpers on walkers.  The most unfortunate destiny awaits those noble green orbs that end up suspended from garage ceilings, tethered by string knotted in their bellies.  Left alone in the dark. . .with nothing to do but ponder their glory days.


 (Next week look for "Balls Behaving Badly" here at www.tennisteasers.blogspot.com)