The Short Happy Life of an RSPA CEO

By The Commish

It was now lunch time, and they were all sitting under the canvas in the big room at the country club in Orlando, the wind from the courts moving the flaps. The CEO sat at the head of the long table. He had been a good CEO for a while, or so they said. He had rebranded the old USPTA into the RSPA, taken it wide to pickleball and padel and all the rest, and now he sat there with the Executive Board around him like white hunters and the President across from him, drinking something clear with ice.

The CEO was a tall man with thinning hair and the look of a man who had always paid his dues. But today his hands were not steady. The Board had been talking about metrics, membership numbers, the usual. There had been a motion earlier, like a lion in the tall grass, and he had not faced it well. He had talked around it. He had run.

The President watched him. She was a handsome woman, lean from years on the courts, with eyes that missed nothing and a smile that could cut. She had been the President for a long time. She knew the game. She knew the man.

“You feel all right, my friend?” she asked.

“Quite,” the CEO said. But his voice was not quite.

The Executive Board members looked at their notes. They were good men, professionals, but this was the hunt now. The rebrand had been his buffalo, the big, dangerous one he had charged after. For a time, it had looked as though he would bring it down clean. Then the numbers came in wrong, the members grumbled, and the old guard muttered about forgetting tennis for the new sports. He had stood his ground once or twice. Then he had started to run again.

“Let’s have another round,” one of the board members said.

They drank. The afternoon sun beat down outside on the green courts. Inside, it was cooler, but the air was heavy.

That night, they met again in the conference room, the fluorescent lights harsh like the African sun. The agenda was simple: the future of the Association. The CEO had prepared slides. He spoke of growth, of unity across racquet sports, of his vision. His voice grew stronger as he went. For a moment, he was not running. He faced the charges head-on, the way a man should.

The President listened. She leaned forward once, her hands folded. The Board asked hard questions. The CEO answered them. He was standing tall now. The short, happy life of a man who had found his courage late.

But the beast was already in the room.

When the motion came, it was quick. No more discussion. The Board had decided. Interim leadership. A clean break. The CEO sat very still. He looked at the President. She rose. She was the buffalo now, the great black one that comes out of the bush with its head down and the horns wide. She moved without hurry. The Executive Board was behind her like hyenas.

“Sir,” she said, and her voice was flat and final. “This is how it ends.”

He tried to speak. He tried to stand his ground again. But the shot came from close range. It was not a bullet from a .450 No. 2. It was a vote, a press release, a polite email to the membership. It took him just the same.

He looked at her, and there was no fear in his eyes now, only the knowledge. He had been a man for a day. And now the beast had him.

The President stood over him where he sat, the papers in her hand like a rifle still smoking. The Board murmured its agreement. He was finished.

“Let’s go have a drink,” she said.

Outside, the courts were empty in the dark, the nets hanging still. The wind had died. In the morning, the members would read the news, and some would shrug, some would say it was a damn shame, and most would go on playing. The Association would go on. It always did.

The CEO had had his short, happy life. He had faced the beast at the end. But the beast was always bigger. And it never missed.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The (original) Commish
Everywhere, USA
Pronouns: They/Them

(Top Photo of Ernest Hemingway: John F. Kennedy Presidential Library)