Friend Dave Lange

The Lange family moved into a house, two blocks away, when I was in 8th grade. Dave (also an 8th grader) was the older of three boys, and we became best friends. We loved sports, and on weekends the two of us developed a tricky football passing play, played basketball on his driveway, and played ping pong in his basement.

In the summer our families visited the Western Racquet Club most Sunday mornings. We played doubles, with Dave, me, and our dads. As Dave and I improved, we could no longer be partners and oppose our fathers in doubles; our fathers thereafter were our partners. We were too much better, as both fathers were great doctors but of course never had time to get tennis training. After a set or two we joined the rest of the families at the pool.

Dave was a good athlete (he also played basketball), and we improved our tennis game considerably. Eventually, I became the #1 singles player as a high school senior, and Dave was the best double player.

One summer Dave did not have a job, and my job did not start until 9:00 am. So, we played five days per week (Monday through Friday) from 7:00 am until 8:00 am. Dave drove his own car, picked me up, and sped to the courts. The courts were totally open most days. We had a pattern. We spent about a half hour practicing each shot: forehand cross-court, backhand cross-court, forehand and backhand down the line, overheads, net play, and serves. Then we would play a couple of games.

By the end of the summer we were in the men’s doubles tournament at the Western Racquet Club. We easily got to the finals. On Labor Day, Dave and I dominated the next best men’s team, and the most remarkable aspect of the match is that Dave made only one error in the entire two sets. And that missed shot was hardly an error: a ball was hit hard, right at him, when he was standing next to the net. He would have returned the ball, but the ball hit the net and bounced funny, and he could not adapt quickly enough. Many years later Dave had the same memory as I did.

One summer we got to the finals of a doubles tournament in Milwaukee (18 and under boys), and nearly won the tournament. We lost the final in three sets.

It is a sad ending. When I was 18 or 19, Dave’s father fell onto the grass, and his ribs broke. My dad told him to get X-Rays, since such a mild injury should not cause a fracture. He had pancreatic cancer, which had spread to his ribs, and he died a few months later. Dave’s mother fell apart emotionally, as she was very close to him. Another terrible memory is that his youngest brother, Greg, several years later, lost his motorcycle helmet and did not have enough money to buy a new one. Dave told me that his (Dave’s) wife refused to lend money for a new helmet. Shortly thereafter, Greg had a motorcycle accident (no helmet) and died.