Bad-ass: the stuff of racquetball addiction

It came to me on my drive back from LA Fitness today why I love racquetball so much. It’s the only source of bad-ass accessible to a guy like me.

You know bad-ass when you see it. When someone does something bad-ass, you hafta just look, shake your head and say, “Damn!”

If you know me, a plumpy-doughy forty-something father of four, you know there’s no way in which I could ever qualify as bad-ass. I will never execute a flying karate kick. I will never nail a three-and-a-half anything with or without a twist. I will never dunk. Or sack a quarterback. Or make a one-handed blind grab to save the game. My life is not set up for bad-ass.

With one exception:  in rare moments… on the racquetball court.

Once in a while, you get a sweeeeet shot. A lightning bolt blue blur from the back court that thunders on the front wall and just rolls away. The kind of shot that makes your opponent stop in his tracks, look at you,  and say, “Damn!”

I’m not that good a player yet, so I only get one of those every few games. But those rare bad-ass moments are the fuel that keeps me coming back. Racquetball is the only kind of exercise that I don’t have to summon will power to go do. And Racquetball is my only source of bad-ass.

And the great thing about racquetball, unlike other sports, is that the older you get, the more bad-ass you can become. Because experience, patience, and discipline mean more than agility and athletic ability in racquetball. I look forward to becoming more treacherous and wily like the older guys I play with. I look forward to more bad-ass, even if it is just within a big white box with a racquet and goggles.




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