We’ve argued about this for 20+ years. But, Mom, I’m right. Even on Mother’s Day

My mother was my tennis partner.

Opponent.

And World’s Worst Line Judge.

That last point she’ll debate.

She still says the shot was in.

I maintain it was out.

I was closer to it, after all.

Truthfully, the memory is fuzzy now, more than two decades later. But I’m going to bet that Shirley Livingston — Mom — hit a blistering forehand down the line to me, her then-12-year-old son.

The son who was always bugging her to play tennis because there weren’t too many folks his age playing at that time and place.

The son who was always rushing her out the door, chiding her for putting on makeup before going out in the summer heat and frying on a green concrete skillet.

The son who watched the gray skies intently on the drive to the court, praying and begging and cursing away the inevitable showers that loved to water Western North Carolina’s mountains.

We’d both gripe when we’d get rained out.

And when the skies held and play began, we’d gripe at each other and our less-than-objective self-umpiring.

It got heated sometimes. If I’m honest, there’s at least one time Mom dragged my hindparts off the court. I deserved that.

She didn’t deserve the way I treated her.

But Mom was forgiving, loving ... and competitive.

I wasn’t Sampras or Agassi, but I wasn’t a slouch. And considering Mom, who had me later in life, was pushing 50, she more than kept up.

She had that blistering forehand, flat, often deep into the court, and often aimed at her son’s less-than-stellar backhand. Maybe she knew he tended to run around shots hit to his left so he could smash a forehand. Maybe she knew his big, too-much-of-a-windup, slow-to-develop forehand was his only weapon, and one prone to misfiring.

I learned that forehand from Mom, though her swing was much more compact. She taught me how to play tennis. She helped my father get better at it.

She went “for blood and guts” when she played, Dad likes to say. He’s right. If you came to the net on her, she wouldn’t hesitate to blast the ball right back at you. And when she managed a passing shot — usually down the line — she’d pump her fist like Tiger Woods after a made putt at Augusta National.

Considering she didn’t grow up playing the sport and, after a college tennis class, basically taught herself the game, well, she was better than good.

That day we argued over that down-the-line forehand she hit, I’m sure we almost came to blows.

She eventually conceded the point.

As she should have.

The ball was out.

But Mom didn’t quit — she walked back to the baseline and readied for the next point.

Which is more than I can say for myself, after I withdrew in the middle of a tournament match a few years later because of a “bad knee” — really, I quit because I was playing a left-handed phenom from Raleigh who served like Sampras, and always to my backhand. It might have taken that dude 15 minutes to blank me 6-0 in the first set.

I’m sure Mom knew I quit. Because I was angry, embarrassed, and my confidence was shattered.

She’s watched me quit other things during my 35 years, too.

But she’s never quit on me, and she never let me give up on myself.

Mom didn’t ask me why I really quit when that lefty was wiping me all over the court.

She didn’t scowl at me.

She didn’t say anything.

And that meant everything to me at the time.

It still does today.

Mom, now 70, doesn’t play too much tennis these days.

I don’t either.

I’ve switched to pickleball, because now I’ve got bad knees and like good food and, well, it’s hard to run around those shots to my backhand. Or run, period.

Now I bug my wife to play with me.

And while she’s often accommodating, I bet she sometimes prays for rain.

Can’t blame her. I can still be too intense. And certainly annoying.

But she’s patient with me, like Mom always has been. What’s that old saying? You end up marrying your mother...?

Mom, you’ll always be my tennis partner.

Thanks for teaching me the game, and everything else.

You still say that shot was in.

We both know it was out.

I’m glad we can joke about it.

This story was originally published May 14, 2017 at 6:23 AM with the headline "We’ve argued about this for 20+ years. But, Mom, I’m right. Even on Mother’s Day."