Charlie was a bear of a man, standing well over six feet tall with a robust paunch sustained by steak, potatoes, and a fidelity to evening cocktails.
He moved like a lumbering bear, juggling a basket full of tennis balls in one meaty hand, and a large Wilson tennis bag slung over his broad shoulders like Santa’s bag of toys. Except there were no toys, just tennis rackets, more balls, notebooks, sunscreen, a hat, and a canteen of water.
At least I thought the canteen contained water.
I don’t know what else Charlie did for a living, but what I do know is that tennis was his life. He followed all the tournaments, subscribed to all the magazines, and was a fixture on the courts of the local community college where I spent my summers playing tennis.
Charlie was not an elegant tennis player.
His size prevented quick movement, grace, and agility. But what he lacked in athleticism he made up for with consistency, strategy, and sheer love for the game.