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By Gerald Marzorati
[vc_empty_space height="15px"]It finally felt like spring along the Hudson the other day, the sky blue-blue, the sun strong, jonquils and daffodils pooling yellow here and there, a sailboat gliding by. Despite the weather, the red-clay tennis courts in Riverside Park at 90th Street were empty and untended, awaiting a spring clean that should have been completed by now: a fresh layer of crushed red brick (which, in tennis, is what “clay” is), a good rolling, a brushing of the lines. If you play tennis, as I do, a glimpse of a court off season—net down, surface obscured by dead leaves—can summon a pang of bleak-mindedness. It tends to pass soon enough, like most wintry thoughts. If, however, you play tennis regularly on those red-clay Riverside courts, as I do; if you have established a web of casual acquaintances there; if you are in your late 60s and chasing down tennis balls in matches against those casual acquaintances is a significant part of how you unfold your post-career city days from April into the first weeks of October; and if you understand that those courts are likely to be closed for many weeks and possibly months: One glimpse of those courts and my pandemic-induced sunken heart sank further.