Pauline Nevins

In the past, when faced with competition, there have been times when I’ve smugly declared myself a winner, often prematurely. Like the time I was learning how to swim.

Those who have read my memoir know my childhood swimming lessons in the frigid outdoor pool in the merry village of Wilby were not successful, although I did learn how to hold my breath underwater.

Decades later, I felt foolish living in sunny California not knowing how to swim. I signed up for lessons at the YMCA. Several women were milling around the pool when I arrived for my first lesson. All wore one-piece suits and swim caps tight enough to cut off circulation. Most were at least 20 years older than I was. Excellent. I worried I would be the oldest student and the slowest learner. Each outweighed me. Excellent again. Unfortunately, the concept of “fat floats” was unknown to me. While these pleasantly plump ladies floated effortlessly on their backs, moving nary a muscle, I had to kick like mad to stop from drowning. I would eventually learn to swim the sidestroke.

Another time I misjudged my competition, I was on firmer ground. Back in the day, before I moved to the Auburn area, I belonged to the Southgate Tennis Club in Sacramento. Sounds grand. And it was in the way that playing outside in the sun is with people you like. But we were a recreation and park district club and had no amenities other than four courts and a public toilet. When we hosted teams from local clubs, I was a little embarrassed. Most of the other clubs had fancy facilities like a roof and toilets with tiled floors. Some club competitors skipped around the court wearing tennis dresses or skirts. Our club wore shorts. My dear daughter had given me a tennis skirt as a gift one Christmas. I’d look at those cute little pleats and the frilly underpants and knew in my heart I couldn’t live up to the uniform. It’s still hanging in my closet.

Periodically, our members would compete against each other. These were great fun and a lot less pressure. If I lost a match, I only let myself down, not the club. One Saturday, I was matched against a member who was then an advice columnist – Helen Bottel. Helen wrote the syndicated column “Helen Help Us” in the Sacramento Union, a newspaper that could boast it published stories by Mark Twain when he was a young journalist. Sadly, the Union ceased publication in 1994 after 143 years. The final headline blared: “We’re History.” My husband, Jim, has never recovered.

Back to Helen. She was a fascinating person – articulate, humorous, well-traveled. I’d enjoy our conversations during tennis breaks and was impressed that in her 70s she began writing in the Yomiuri Shimbun newspaper in Japan. She would receive letters from Japanese readers translated by the newspaper into English. She told me her Japanese readers were hungry for Western advice. They called her Kimottama Obachan (Daring Old Aunt). She was the only advice columnist in the country and enjoyed being number one. For years, Helen was number three, trailing in popularity to Esther Pauline and Pauline Esther (their real names), the feuding twin sisters who penned the advice columns: “Ask Ann Landers” and “Dear Abby.”

Helen missed a couple of tennis meetings, and I learned she had a hip replacement. In no time, she was back on the court. I was matched against her. No competition. It sounds harsh, but I needed a win.

I was never a heavy hitter. My serves couldn’t blow a leaf off the court, so I wasn’t worried about causing Helen any harm, but I was competitive. The minute I faced her across the net I had second thoughts. I became emotionally hamstrung. I was intimidated. Here she was, a woman in her early 70s, a good 30 years my senior at the time, and recovering from hip surgery.

What, if in her effort to reach one of my returns she was injured. I decided to hit soft balls directly to her so she didn’t have to move. An observer thought we were warming up. Helen, however, had other ideas. I didn’t know beforehand that her motto, confessed to a journalist, was, “Leap before you look.” She whacked balls back with a vengeance. Okay, lady, this is how you want to play, I thought, and returned a ball outside her reach. Helen lunged to the side for the first time. She stumbled. Now you’ve done it, I thought, you’ve hurt sweet, famous, Helen. Wrong. Helen recovered her footing and belted the ball back. Game, set, match to Helen. No competition.