Not Even Not Zen 429: Aleksi, Note 2 - The Only Handball Incident

The Only Handball Incident

We got up early to play. My girlfriend wrung her hands, either panicked or enthusiastic about me going off without her. But of course she came along partway. That was a pattern we were developing without knowing it. We drove together to Donna and Aleksi's house in Northampton. There, I put on tennis-club shorts so I could play handball with Aleksi. I had never played before. 

"I don't have a spare glove," he said. "But I don't think it'll matter."

Aleksi drove us to a gym, where I discovered that a handball court is the same as a racquetball court. At least, it was at his club in Massachusetts. The room he had reserved looked good, three walls of smooth, painted concrete and a fourth of inch-thick glass. It was a gleaming space. Across the polished, wood floor ran a single red line, the serving line.

"Drop once, then serve," he said, moving his arms to show me. He smacked the ball across the room. 

"Wow!" I said, sort of meaning 'ow' when I served a second later.

The lessons continued despite the hot ouch of hitting the ball without a glove. We practiced different shots. Aleksi taught me how to play the corners, which ended up being the important part. The best bounces hit three walls close together, so the ball returns in a weird direction. You had to learn to expect the direction. Even the best players got fooled sometimes; and I was a beginner. 

I'd say I learned the rules and we played a game but I think, in fact, we started a game and worked on the rules together. But I did learn. And we did play. And we kept on. We kept hitting and running and laughing at the crazy angles of the rebounds.

"Good shot!" Aleksi said every now and then. "You're getting it."

In half an hour, the encouragement turned to, "Excellent anticipation!" and "You've got it." 

We played and played, game after game. In theory, we were waiting for a handball friend of Aleksi's. A couple of times, Al wondered aloud about where the fellow was. Eventually, the man arrived, not quite an hour late. He turned out to be a medium-sized, dark-haired young fellow. He wore a charcoal grey shirt, unusual for a club setting, and had longish hair like a college student. He gave a strong handshake and seemed to have a practical, skeptical approach to everything, more like one of the locals than a typical freshman. 

"Where's your glove?" he asked me after the handshake. 

"First time," I said. 

"I figured I'd let him decide if he likes it before buying equipment," Al chipped in. His friend raised an eyebrow, which should have been a clue. 

"The ball is hard," he observed. "Doesn't it hurt to hit it with a bare hand?"

"Yeah," I admitted. 

We all shrugged. After another warm-up session, we started playing competitive games. And we kept on, game after game. Eventually, Aleksi's friend walked to over to his watch, which he had left next to his bag. 

"It's been an hour," he announced. He glanced at me. "How's your hand?"

"Well, it hurt when I started playing. Then it got buzzing, all tingly," I said. "Now I can't feel it."

"Huh."

He put down his watch, took a drink, and returned to play. We kept on going. Aleksi's friend was an experienced player. He won most of the matches. Al got a couple. A few times, my score got close. At the end of one game, my arm felt tired. It must have shown.

"I think it's time for you to stop," said Aleksi's friend. "Probably we all should stop."

"Why?" Aleksi asked. 

"I don't like him playing without a glove," the fellow replied. "I don't trust it."

When we got back, Donna and my girlfriend treated us to an early dinner. Donna mentioned how I was eating left handed. The fingers on my right hand were shaking too much. Once I made the switch, though, I didn't much notice. Afterward, we played cards for a while. I felt fine.

The next morning, I woke up to find my right hand replaced by a grapefruit. It was a lump of purple flesh that throbbed. Ugh. Fortunately, I had busted my right hand a lot like this in high school. I knew how to handle it. My left hand would do most of the work for the day, no problem. The most difficult part was the involuntary horror on people's faces when they noticed my purple grapefruit.

By the evening, I realized this might go on for a while. Sure enough, on Monday morning I could drive but I had to report to work one-handed. I was installing computer systems in a bookstore. The staff, all older women, responded with an outpouring of motherly sympathy. They made me hot chocolate. They did the typing. (I did a little left-handed work.) All in all, it promised to be an entertaining week. My hand, beaten like a cheap steak as it was, returned to normal over the course of a few days. The next time I saw Donna and Aleksi, I had full movement in my fingers.

My girlfriend couldn't resist describing the lump that had been the purple grapefruit, though. Aleksi frowned, apologized, and never invited me to handball again.