That fuzzy ball

I went to dinner with a small group of friend. Actually, friends of a friend, so I don’t see them often. They’re nice and interesting people, but I especially look forward to seeing Scott. I don’t know him well, but he’s the type of affable, balanced and intelligent person anyone would be happy to be around.

Last night, he was wearing an open collared shirt and I saw the glint of a silver tennis ball peeping through the v-neck. I asked him if that was his sport. “No, I have a bad back.” He smiled, “That’s my life.”

Scott’s father was a successful businessman. Scott and his brothers were sent to an exclusive private school with the other silver spoons. He uses that term often in telling his story. Even at an early age, they knew they had it made and wouldn’t have a care in life about money. They were largely goof-offs.

Scott’s father told him not to expect a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow because he intended to spend it before he checked out. Scott paid no attention.

He didn’t do much in high school except hit that fuzzy ball (tennis). That he could do and do very well. When he graduated, he went to a private college one notch below Ivy League, in spite of poor grades. He could hit that fuzzy ball.

The grades went from poor to worse. Scott’s father made an appointment with the dean to find out what the problem was. The dean told him Scott couldn’t get himself to class or do homework. The father asked why he hadn’t been kicked out. He could hit that fuzzy ball.

If the dean wasn’t willing to boot him, Scott had had enough of pressure from home and dropped out. He joined the navy to get as far away as possible from family pressures on him to stop malingering. He didn’t impress his commanding officers much and was shipped off to a remote station in Ethiopia. Better than Viet Nam, but no garden spot.

The country was poor and primitive, save for the palaces owned by Emperor Haile Selassie. Somehow, Scott’s single talent came to the attention of the ruling class, rendering him celebrity status, and he was given free reign at the nearby palace. He spent his tour of duty playing tennis every day and enjoying the royal life. He could hit that fuzzy ball.

When he mustered out, he found that his father had already squandered the family fortune and was broke. Scott headed west and became a beach bum. California dreamin’.

That wasn’t the panacea he thought it would be, but he still hadn’t reached the turning point. When he left the service, he had reconnected with some of the other silver spoons. Now, they were dropping in on him when on their lavish vacations that brought them to or through Southern California. Scott resented the opulent life styles they still enjoyed. That’s what finally dropped him into gear.

He went to see the tennis coach at a university, took him out on the court and whipped him good, earning a full scholarship. He could hit that fuzzy ball. He did have GI benefits, but the scholarship made it easier.

He applied himself in school and later on the job. Today, he’s an executive back home in Cincinnati, which he attributes a lot to one thing. He could hit that fuzzy ball.