Aspiring to get in on the groundswell of popularity emerging for Curmudgeon Tennis, there is no shortage of fans coming out of the woodwork. Our phone lines are swamped with those hoping to learn what it takes to become a Curmudgeon (Spoiler Alert: Get old, grumpy, but still sentient enough to write pithy emails. Extra credit given for any artificial joints.) Our email is also overflowing with both high praise and horrific invective. One entry from a rightfully-struggling poet did catch our attention:
Gentlemen, Beyond their prime.
A world Sublime.
Sometimes fun,
But never kind.
Old men, with great conviction,
Curmudgeon men, days of fiction.
Limping onto courts for glory,
Never think to say, I’m sorry.
They wrap and strap,
Their braces on.
And Make bad calls,
Each day they’re born.
And yet, they always knew,
A greater day, Was never due.
A chance to play, A day to compete,
Would forever, make a Curmudgeon day Complete!
— Aspiring Curmudgeon Craig 🙏
NOTE: This piece is strictly the opinion of whomever the heck it was that wrote it. The Curmudgeon High Council denies any attempt to link them with bad calls, and resents the identification of its members with braces. Those mighty shielding devices are instead, like the similar ones worn by MLB players, designed to protect them from injury when the Buck-Twenty-Five serves of their opponents miss the mark.
The Curmudgeon Quarterly 