I’m lounging in a leather chair in the locker room at my racquet club in Boston. The walls are adorned with fox-hunting wallpaper from another century. Ancient photographs of men in white, high-waisted trousers posing with wooden racquets hang haphazardly above a couch with plaid pillows—a perfect place for an afternoon snooze.
I just wrapped up a morning of court tennis, hardball, rugby fives, and squash. If I could’ve figured out how to open the door to the racquets court I would’ve completed the quintfecta, but it’s heavier than a bank vault and requires the mind of an engineer to operate.
I took a long steam and a cold shower—feeling like a million bucks. If there’s anything finer than an executive workout, I’ve yet to find it.
It’s not quite noon, but I’m feeling an early siesta is in order. I had a late night with the boys…too many cigars, again. Try as I may, that vice keeps rearing its head: I am a magnet to tobacco’s steel.
Come to think of it, I’m going to save my nap for this afternoon. I’m headed to the Union Club to puff on my pipe.
P.S. I received my new court tennis racquet today, a 365-gram handmade beauty from Grays of Cambridge, a family-owned English company with 170 years of history.
P.P.S. I also received a new squash racquet, a 125-gram number by Dunlop. They are roommates in my locker.
*Composed and Edited at the Tennis & Racquet Club in Boston, Published in New York City at 57th & 3rd
