The Rhythm of Gravel

Yesterday afternoon was one of those warm Silverdale afternoons that quietly convince you not to do anything ambitious. Even the boxwood hedge outside looked unusually satisfied with itself.

I had been sitting on my upside-down beer crate for a while before the heat nudged me indoors. I decided I could use a little sporting inspiration, so I switched on the television.

It landed in the middle of a tennis semifinal.

Somewhere in France, I think.

Now, tennis has a rhythm all its own.

Thwack.

Thunk.

Thwack.

Thunk.

The little yellow ball travels from left to right, then right to left, and before long your own head begins following along as if you’d signed an agreement without reading the small print.

Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

After ten minutes I felt less like a sports fan and more like the volunteer in a stage hypnotist’s act at the county fair.

But what finally tipped me over the edge wasn’t the tennis.

It was the commentator.

I decided to call her The Whisper of Wimbledon, even though the match wasn’t at Wimbledon at all. Some nicknames arrive before the facts do.

She had one of those perfectly level voices that never climbed, never hurried and never seemed particularly interested in arriving anywhere.

“And the ball goes back across the net… lovely backhand down the line… forty-thirty…”

It sounded less like live sport and more like someone reading the instruction manual for a refrigerator inside a very large cave.

Apparently there is a special broadcasting voice reserved for sports where spectators are expected to behave themselves.

My eyelids surrendered almost immediately.

I slid a little farther into the sofa.

My mouth may have fallen open.

I can’t say for certain.

Fortunately, every few moments one of the players rescued me.

Not with spectacular tennis.

With noise.

Uuugghhh!

Thwack.

Aaaahhh!

Thunk.

The whole thing sounded as though someone was dragging a solid oak sideboard across a gravel driveway.

Just as the match seemed to reach an important moment, the television produced an especially dramatic shriek.

At that exact moment, my wife walked into the room carrying a basket of laundry.

She stopped.

Looked at the television.

Looked at me.

Then back at the television.

“Now, Marcel…”

She waited just long enough for one of the players to unleash another heroic grunt while serving an ace.

“It sounds,” she said, “as though someone is giving birth on a gravel road.”

She picked up the remote control with the quiet confidence of someone who already knows the discussion is over.

A second later we were watching a documentary about reforestation in Scotland.

People planting young trees.

Wind moving gently through the branches.

Nobody yelling.

“There,” she said. “That’s much healthier for your blood pressure.”

She started toward the hallway before adding, almost as an afterthought,

“And once you’ve recovered from all this athletic excitement, the vacuum cleaner is still waiting exactly where you left it.”

There are moments in a marriage when the wisest reply is no reply at all.

So I watched Scottish forests instead.

I never did find out who won the tennis match.

But I did manage a remarkably refreshing nap between the first serve and the new pine saplings.

This afternoon I’ll be back at the library.

I think I might let the book cart squeak a little louder than usual when I reach the sports section.

Just to see if anyone wakes up.

Sometimes that’s all it takes to remind people they’re not the only ones quietly drifting through the afternoon.