It’s a gorgeous sunny So Cal day today. The air is sweet and there’s a slight breeze. It’s perfect tennis weather, reminding me of the old summer days when I would wake up in the morning, swing my racket bag over my shoulder and mentally prepare myself for a day on the courts. It’s been years since my last official tennis match, but I still can’t step on a court without remembering the sweat, the nerves, the excitement, the churning stomach.
These days I get my kicks not with topsin, angles and deftly placed serves (or so I liked to think), but with battling disease. Now it’s a pager, a stethoscope and a scalpel (on a good OR day) replacing my racket. Now I fidget by popping my pager in and out of its holder on my hip rather than rearrange my strings between points. The smell of a fresh can of tennis balls is replaced by the odor of cauterized flesh. But the sweat, joy, devastation and nerves are all too familiar, and after years of being holed up with basic science textbooks, I revel in the nostalgia.
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