No doubt you've been watching the display of sheer power, athleticism and depth perception we call the U.S. Open.

I certainly have. It's amazing the way players never lose a game because they can't get a single serve over the net. And it's unbelievable the way they actually return the ball instead of flailing their rackets wildly about three feet away, believing they are about to hit it.

In short, the U.S. Open looks different from the game The Other Half and I have been playing on weekends.

It began with a casual conversation with a co-worker and the ensuing gift of a used racket. It progressed to an additional new racket, six cans of name-brand tennis balls, two visors, four wristbands and a $30 metal tennis ball carrier that allows one to pick up the balls without bending over.

The U.S. Open has people running around grabbing the excess tennis balls. We don't have that.

Mr. Half and I make good tennis partners because we're both absolutely dismal. There's nothing more pitiful than watching two people who've seen their 10-year high-school reunions come and go trying to remember tennis class in P.E.

"Does it count if it hits the net and still goes over?"

"That's a do-over."

"There's no do-overs in tennis. This isn't kickball."

"I think it's a do-over."

"When do we switch sides?"

"Every game."

"OK."

And so it goes. Maybe I looked foolish on the court, but at least I was enjoying myself over the summer, when people in their right minds stayed indoors and Mr. Half and I often had the whole Southeast Missouri State University tennis complex to ourselves.

Now, with nice weather and crowded courts, I'm not enjoying it so much.

On Monday, we got a court next to a couple of boys and their dad. The boys were probably 10 or 11, and it warmed my heart to see their father taking them out on the holiday, teaching them the sport.

And then they started to play.

Those boys could have easily beaten Mr. Half and me, and that's with one of them playing the two of us. Ends up their dad was only there to snag balls and clue them in on the finer points.

Not once did one of their tennis balls end up on our side. Ours interrupted their match at least five times. On the last one, I told them to keep any more that went over there. They tried to be gracious and smiled tensely.

Amateurs really tick off kids.

Luckily, the most sought-after tennis teacher in Cape Girardeau was giving lessons nearby. We followed her to her car and begged to be taken on as students.

"I'm really busy right now, but I'll have something available next summer," she said.

We explained that we'd rather not look like idiots for another nine months. She tried to be nice.

"Just practice!" she said. "I saw you playing. You've got your forehand, your backhand -- just keep working it."

Forehand? Backhand? I just do whatever it takes to get the ball back over the net. Not one time has my ball made that satisfying "THWOP" that one hears at the U.S. Open. It's more of a little "poing."

The instructor offered to find some good instructional videotapes.

That might work. But what we really need is a private tennis court where no one can see us play.

Heidi Hall is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.