It was hot on Saturday morning, August 16, 2025, when I took up a tennis racquet in anger for the first time in my life.
My son Shel and I were entered in the parent-child tennis tournament at the Greenville Golf and Country Club.
In the past year, Shel had found his stride in tennis. He spent nearly every day since the end of the previous season, weather permitting, on a tennis court working on his game.
The hard work paid off in an individual and team state championship at Washington School.
I made the suggestion that we play in the tournament as sort of a goof. I told him he was good enough to win with me, though I had never in my life played tennis.
Our first two matches were against much younger opponents, and Shel, ever the gentleman, took into account their age to determine his aggressiveness.
Those matches gave me a chance to warm up and learn a little bit about what I could actually do.
I learned I actually couldn’t do very much.
It’s the first time in an athletic or sporting venture with my children I felt almost helpless.
That’s a feeling I didn’t expect to have last weekend.
I’m athletic enough to hold my own in most any competition, but in this case, I was just play-acting.
In our third match, the sun had begun to bake the courts, and the wind had disappeared.
We were playing against our friends Jessica and Walt Milam. Jessica insisted we play real tennis and not hold Shel back.
It was the first time I had been that close to an actual tennis player when he let his left-handed serve rip.
I baked in the sun, watching him win point after point. I actually got to participate in this one and felt pretty confident I may actually be a contributor at some point.
We played 10 games, and I was relieved when the last point was tallied in our favor.
We’d made it to the finals and took a break for lunch and some air conditioning.
We started the championship match against more friends in Coers and Burt Caraway at about 1 p.m. The sun was straight up in the sky, and temperatures soared past 95 degrees.
Shel was confident, but his confidence did not match our results in the first five games. We lost all of them.
Since the children had decided we were only to play until the first team won six games, we were on the ropes.
I actually found myself resigned to a loss, but I wanted to win at least one game to avoid the donut.
We won the next game quickly, and the same with the next three. I stayed as far out of the way as I could, watching Shel win every point on his own.
I’d hit my return on every other serve and get the heck out of the way.
We won the fifth game on a deuce point, and the match was tied.
It was Shel’s serve, and I felt confident until I saw his first toss.
He was spent.
We traded points until deuce. We were playing no AD scores, and so this was match point.
Shel dropped his second serve in, Coers returned it to me, and I hit the ball directly into the tape at the top of the net from the baseline.
I dropped the racquet and cursed under my breath.
The first ball I had to play in the last 10 minutes came to me, and I couldn’t get it done.
Shel had played an amazing last five games, and when it was my turn to help, I failed.
I doubt many parents watch their children surpass them in athleticism in an actual competition together, but I got to do so.
Sure, I’m mad that I couldn’t get it done when it mattered the most, but I also got the unique opportunity to watch my son do what he does best.
It also doesn’t hurt that he is too old to play in this tournament again, and I won’t have to bake on a tennis court next August, watching my son take over from his old man.
He’s gone past me in sports now, and that’s good, but don’t ask him who caught more fish on our last trip together.
It wasn’t him.
Jon Alverson is proud to be the publisher and editor of the Delta Democrat-Times. Write to him at jalverson@ddtonline.com or call him at 662-335-1155.
