With our tennis rackets strewn across the back seat, clinking like wine glasses with every bump in the road, we turn into the iconic public tennis center for our match. The Atlanta skyline peers over the horizon like a craning spectator in the cheap seats. A rush of childhood memories washes over me, accompanied by a faint smell of Rubico, the green, gritty surface of the thirteen clay courts. Built in the 1950’s on the outskirts of town, Bitsy Grant now occupies prime real estate in the heart of the city.
Despite renovations over the years, little has changed. The flat-roofed, glass-enclosed, two-story tennis center housing the locker rooms and sign-in desk reminds me of a building from the Jetson’s – modern in its day but merely endearing in the present. The chipped, forest green, metal stairway railing is whitewashed now, and a flat screen has replaced the RCA black and white television once precariously mounted three inches from the ceiling. The grainy, life-size portrait of Bitsy Grant, gripping a wooden racket and sliding with legs wide to reach a low ball, still hangs on the red brick wall along the stairs. Nicknamed for his 5’4” stature, Bitsy and his portrait actually remain larger than life in more ways than one.
In the sixties my sisters and I used to tumble out of the station wagon and race to see “Coach” as Mom and Dad gathered their thermoses and equipment for an afternoon of tennis. Bobby Dodd, as skillful on Court One as he once was coaching the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets from the fifty-yard line, was always there. If he wasn’t frustrating his opponents with his unorthodox lob between his legs or his finesse with soft but sharp-angled net shots on the court, he was cleaning house with his cronies at the card table upstairs. He and his gin-playing buddies always stopped mid-hand and acted like they’d waited all morning for us to arrive. After circling the card table with a hug for each neck, we left them to finish their hand.
Whisked outside and strictly instructed to play QUIETLY – there was, after all, decorum and tennis etiquette back then – we spent the next few hours in, under, and on top of the paint-stripped bleachers strategically placed in the middle of the courts. As beet-faced and sweaty as our tennis-playing parents after two hours, we came away with splinters from the weathered planks of seating and a new collection of Coca-Cola caps from underneath. In exchange for a dime clattering down its hollow throat, a Coke machine residing in the cave-like darkness beneath the bleachers relinquished the coldest soft drink in the city, well worth the risk of the real yellow jackets that swarmed over the 30-gallon barrel trashcan posing as a sidekick to the king of refreshment.
The Coke machine likely waited with the RCA on the curb years ago for the Atlanta City trash truck to squeal its hydraulic brakes to a stop for a pick-up, but a spirit of days-gone-by lives on at Bitsy Grant. I return to my car for a hairclip before my match and pass two white-haired gentlemen visiting in the parking lot. They look familiar. I wait for a lull in conversation and break in.
“Excuse me, I apologize for interrupting, but …”
“Are you Jerry Cates’s daughter?” one gentleman asks. “You look just like him.”
OK, Dad’s been gone since 2002 and probably had not played at Bitsy for a couple decades before that – these men hadn’t seen him in at least thirty years. The other gentleman interjects, “Do you know I am still living in the house your father built for me in 1963?”
Brimming with pride and a rush of old-home happiness, his next remark slams me back to earth like an overhead smash. “And you’re still playing tennis?” Ouch. I suppose we all stay spry in our own minds. Only others age… except at Bitsy Grant, which is timeless, as are its players.
My husband signals to me from Court 16 that we are up. I say goodbye and eye the water fountain mounted on the side of the building. I make a quick detour and gulp lustily from the weak spout, because maybe, just maybe, there’s something in the water. We do not come away with a win, but I am still smiling as I crawl into bed and wonder if my racket will hold out another thirty years.