Grand Slam Fun

We’ve found a video game for both of us. We. Wii. Oui. While we’ve enjoyed many zombie-hunting trips together on Xbox and on Wii, it is the physical games that we really need. Mr. Husband and Mrs. Me have gained 10 lbs. each since our wedded bliss began. Oops. We got comfortable. Oops. We got really comfortable. Oops. We are so happy. But, alas, the buttons on our pants protest, so we have been trying to reel it in. Get a grip. We need to get down to business and move a little. Wii’s Grand Slam Tennis just came out, and we are hooked.

We spent the beginning of March this year watching the Davis Cup live when it came to town. It was the best darn money we’ve ever spent in town. Next time, we’ll spend more. Bring back the tennis! We were edge-of-the-seat, up in the crowd, screaming U.S.A. Kill the enemy! We could have been a mob, if properly provoked. We were rabid with tennis.

Now, every night, you can find us center court at Wimbledon, the U.S. Open, Australian Open, or at the French Open where we eat brie and baguette before getting on the court. We are playing hard. Our shoulders hurt. We are champions. Our legs are sore. We are losing. We are sweating to the tennis. We are trying desperately to understand how to win. We’ve gone online and gotten spanked by players ranked in the thousands where the goal is to be ranked #1. The feeling of suck permeates. We will not go back online for a while. Our living room floor stays clear for game play. We must practice so that one day … one day, we can go back online and hold our heads up high while our racquet swings.

It is tennis all the time. And Mr. Husband is amazing. He’s a born player. Wait! That’s not fair! I’m the real tennis player—he is the gamer. I should be naturally better than him. He is always naturally, effortlessly, logically better than me. I try so hard! Last night, we were playing and, after he beat me two games in a row, I started whining about how it wasn’t fair that he wasn’t moving like a real tennis player. He was simply understanding how to manipulate the Wii with her new Wii Motion attachment. No. That’s not right. Visions of the Southpark WOW episode flashed to the front of my brain: Big No. Mr. Husband must be an athlete and play like an athlete if we are to game together in this Wii tennis wonder-world. He is now swinging like a pro. And he’s really getting a work out.

The cool thing is the Wii Motion. I love it. My killer backhand is as it was in the real world when I played tennis daily in the days before Mr. Husband. Amazing that the computer figures this out quickly. The stupid computer will not serve to my backhand. Not fair. That means I have to work on my forehand. Ugh. Just like in the real world. My net game still stinks, but I’m an awesome doubles partner regardless. My serve is steady and tough and I’m quick to the ball. I am so alive on the court. Just like in the real world. And I still lose. Grrr. Just like in the real world.

The just-like-in-real-life façade changes for the better for Mr. Husband. He never really played outside as a kid (he was a gamer—seriously), so he never learned to play some minor sports like tennis. He has a willingness to learn—he’ll get out on the court and dodge balls as I hit them at him. He is slow to start in his 6’7” frame and reluctant to run for a ball lest he not be able to stop. When his momentum picks up, the man is like a freight train. Look out! In the Wii tennis world, he is nimble like a deer with the quickness of a bunny. Not the white kind with pink eyes, but the hardcore brown bunny that can whip across a busy highway without a second look back. He is so hot while he knocks the ball around. It’s all I ever wanted. The two of us—playing tennis. I’m ok with the fact that it’s virtual tennis. One day, far in the real world future, I’ll get him back on a real court. When that awesome day comes, he’ll understand better how it all works. He’ll have studied it in his video game world. We are building a future—one that sees him as my awesome doubles partner where nothing can get by him at the net. I am planning. We are playing.