Sports with Dad
June 16, 2021 at 3:48 p.m.
Sports with Dad
By Will Fehlinger-
Tennis became our family sport, if you will, with Dad leading the charge. I’m not sure when and why he first picked up the game but hopping in our Chevrolet Econoline van and rolling up on the Brookville Elementary courts became almost a Sunday ritual in the spring and summer.
We’d stretch out, tap some balls over the net before Dad said “You wanna’ do something?” – which meant playing a set or maybe two.
Through his dinking and dunking and trick serves, I’d almost always find myself on the losing end and fuming on the trip home. I think it’s how I learned to curse and throw my racquet.
He played in men’s leagues when he was younger and living in Cincinnati and was competitive judging by some of the trophies he collected. Eventually, four of his kids spent time at either No. 1 doubles or singles in high school (some cases both). He and mom would spend hours cheering on their favorite players during Grand Slam events, needing to juggle their Mass obligations with the Sunday finals of a Wimbledon or French Open. Roger Federer was Dad’s man but back in the day it was John Newcombe, who Dad resembled once upon a time.
In his prep days, he competed in high hurdles and high jump in track and field and was a kickoff specialist for the Greyhounds. He always told the story of a football game down at the park when his dad – also Carl – was in attendance. Dad kicked off and ran downfield to earn the tackle on the return man, only to learn later that his father had been talking to another fan and missed the entire play.
In the navy, Dad was a part of the base basketball team(s) and held his own with players hailing from all over the U.S. On occasion, he’d fire up a few shots with us in the evenings – or get out his old greasy mitt and toss ball for a while … or fling a pigskin to us in some underhanded motion that came out of the 1940s. His ping-pong skills were decent if I remember right – again with those wicked spins. Company picnics over the years gave him a chance to show off his horseshoe acumen, uttering a “Get up there” to urge a shoe onto the stake.
Later, when those things were out of the question, he still would join in family cornhole tournaments or pop into a neighborhood bar to knock a few pool balls around. Pickleball became an option as a less strenuous replacement for tennis.
So, you could say I came about my love of sports honestly.
Thanks, Dad! We’ll miss you.
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Tennis became our family sport, if you will, with Dad leading the charge. I’m not sure when and why he first picked up the game but hopping in our Chevrolet Econoline van and rolling up on the Brookville Elementary courts became almost a Sunday ritual in the spring and summer.
We’d stretch out, tap some balls over the net before Dad said “You wanna’ do something?” – which meant playing a set or maybe two.
Through his dinking and dunking and trick serves, I’d almost always find myself on the losing end and fuming on the trip home. I think it’s how I learned to curse and throw my racquet.
He played in men’s leagues when he was younger and living in Cincinnati and was competitive judging by some of the trophies he collected. Eventually, four of his kids spent time at either No. 1 doubles or singles in high school (some cases both). He and mom would spend hours cheering on their favorite players during Grand Slam events, needing to juggle their Mass obligations with the Sunday finals of a Wimbledon or French Open. Roger Federer was Dad’s man but back in the day it was John Newcombe, who Dad resembled once upon a time.
In his prep days, he competed in high hurdles and high jump in track and field and was a kickoff specialist for the Greyhounds. He always told the story of a football game down at the park when his dad – also Carl – was in attendance. Dad kicked off and ran downfield to earn the tackle on the return man, only to learn later that his father had been talking to another fan and missed the entire play.
In the navy, Dad was a part of the base basketball team(s) and held his own with players hailing from all over the U.S. On occasion, he’d fire up a few shots with us in the evenings – or get out his old greasy mitt and toss ball for a while … or fling a pigskin to us in some underhanded motion that came out of the 1940s. His ping-pong skills were decent if I remember right – again with those wicked spins. Company picnics over the years gave him a chance to show off his horseshoe acumen, uttering a “Get up there” to urge a shoe onto the stake.
Later, when those things were out of the question, he still would join in family cornhole tournaments or pop into a neighborhood bar to knock a few pool balls around. Pickleball became an option as a less strenuous replacement for tennis.
So, you could say I came about my love of sports honestly.
Thanks, Dad! We’ll miss you.
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