I’m retrieving balls at the Baraboo High School tennis courts before my partner and I begin a second set of doubles. Just outside the fence, three young girls sit cross-legged on the cement. Ah, the wonder of being that young and flexible again. As they chatter away, I recall being a pom-pom girl at Racine’s Horlick High School and working on routines that included backbends, cartwheels, and doing the splits. Back then, I obsessed about clothes, hairstyles, cars, homecoming dances, and my looks—things that seem trivial to me now. One girl, sporting a ponytail, turns her head to the others. “Look at that Grandma.”

Ouch. I cringe, a tightness in my throat. I pull my hat forward so it covers my face. She didn’t even bother to whisper. She must think I’m not only old but deaf, too.

Youth today, I grumble to myself as I gather the balls. They have no filter. And where are their values and respect? They’re impolite, self-centered, and clueless.

I’ve overheard them say things like, “I have nothing to do this week. I just wish it were Friday so I could see my boyfriend.” Nothing to do? Wishing their lives away? In high school, I may have said similar things, but I sure don’t anymore. I always want time to slow down and hope for more minutes to finish everything. My office has a stack of books I want a read, a pile of travel brochures for trips on my bucket list, and then there are all the unfinished stories I still want to tell.

Youth today are spending too much time on their impersonal phones and devices, I grumble, noting I sound like a Grandma and a sour one. My pockets bulging with balls, I realize I should have sympathy for them. Right now, these teens are carefree, but in the blink of an eye, they will be in a stressful career. They may end up married and choose to start a family. For all the delights of motherhood, they could end up with a demanding baby, a fussy toddler, a belligerent middle schooler, and eventually a ponytailed teen who makes hurtful comments. That teen may cause their hair to turn grey prematurely and give them wrinkles to equal mine.

I’ve gathered the stray balls, so I head back toward the other players, all younger than me.  I pass the ponytailed girl. She glances my way, but she doesn’t really see me. Ponytail girl is too intent on her friends. She hadn’t exactly sneered the words “Look-at-that-Grandma,” and I may be overly sensitive after celebrating a “big” birthday, but the hurtful words keep pounding in my head. I catch a wistful look on the girl’s face and my mouth drops open when she adds to her earlier thought.

“I wish my grandma played tennis.”

I pull my hat away from my face. She does what? Wishes her grandma played tennis? I nearly stumble. Then I grin. Youth today. They’re so sweet and wise, so intelligent and enlightened, so perceptive and sensitive. I join my fellow tennis players, giggling like a teenager.