Scream Tennis

Chris didn't howl. Martina didn't growl. So what's with all these present-day tennis ladies making so much—here it comes—racket? Are they simply paying collective homage to proto-grunter Monica Seles by dint of over-the-top emulation?

It's astronomically asinine. Ridiculously risible. Outrageously outré.

On the other hand, it can also be lotsa fun—when you settle in for a side-splitting match of SCREAM TENNIS!

Don't need no rackets. Don't need no net. Don't need no tennis court or togs. Don't need no yellow balls. All you need for a fast set of Scream Tennis is sturdy lungs, supple vocal chords, and an enthusiastic willingness—or better yet, a perverse eagerness—to disturb the peace big-time.

My daughter Kelly and I spontaneously invented this consummately cathartic divertissement while watching the French Open. There was a whatever-round match featuring Serena Williams versus some Russian lady, and we just could not get past the Russian's shrieks and Serena's grunts.

Next thing we knew, Kelly was mimicking the shrieking, and I was returning her "serves" and "ground strokes" with grunts, and she was mopping the court with me at 40-love. (Her hilarious whooping-and-looping screams kept making me laugh too hard to go on volleying.)

Seriously. You need to play you some Scream Tennis. Preferably really early in the morning or really late at night. Or in the lunchroom at the office. Or—an inspired suggestion from my son—across adjacent stalls in a public restroom.

Read what Martina said about screaming.

And "Happy Birthday!" Kelly.

# # #