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After brain surgery, band member rallies to focus on tennis

"I was born..."

This well-shorn first line of the classic novel "David Copperfield" has become a rallying cry; sort of an inside joke among some of us inveterate San Franciscans. We give this line whenever someone asks us to supply personal thoughts regarding our experiences at the quadrennial Gay Games.

It is also a crucial line in my story that I would like to share with you as we all prepare to participate in the Chicago Gay Games. My journey has been an interesting one to say the least. I have participated in Gay Games in San Francisco (1982 and 1986), in Vancouver (1990) and in New York City (1994). Of the ones I've seen, Vancouver had the finest weather and the best Closing Ceremonies, with New York's in Yankee Stadium a close second. Tina Turner's performance in a tiger outfit at San Francisco's Closing Ceremonies was beyond spectacular. New York had the best food and the biggest train-wreck: a performance by the Lesbian and Gay Bands of America at Madison Square Garden that ended badly. I will always have the distinct memory of an astonished Quentin Crisp sitting in the first row, mouth agape as the "Ode to Joy" became the stuff of legend as the 150+ musicians and mixed chorus members came to clearly different musical conclusions. Beethoven was turning in his grave. It was a humbling experience. Mr. Crisp's only comment to me at the reception following the concert — as I asked what he thought of the performance — was to respond dryly with, "Was anyone killed in the accident?" It was a character-building experience.

Along with the musical-cultural events in Vancouver, I attended several of the swimming events. I got to know the water polo and diving teams, mostly when the late afternoons transitioned from competition to play at our hotel pool. The parties were legendary.

But that, too, is another story for another day. I spent my time and energy at the Gay Games on the athletic sidelines, keeping my clarinet reed wet or hitting a bass drum. So, as Chicago Gay Games approached, I vowed to participate as an athlete in my favorite sport of tennis. It helps that I really like wearing white!

It was no surprise that I found my game a bit rusty. Through some miracle of mind over matter (my 55 year old tendons), my serve somehow survived intact. I guess there are just some moves the body does not forget. I still have a good first serve and a dangerous two-handed cross-court backhand borrowed from Chrissy Evert (I truly date myself here). This is particularly gratifying to report since I have been waging a war with Parkinson's Disease for the last fourteen years.

That's where the rub comes in.

In 1991, I was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. It is neurological. The neurological mail was simply not delivering the instructions to the muscles. All looked lost. Hope was abandoned. Everything one does is affected. Your body becomes a stranger to you. Yet, thanks to a team of very smart surgeons at Stanford University Hospital who were willing to take a risk on my own sorry noggin, two neuro-transmitter stimulators (pacemakers) were implanted deep into my brain near the subthalamic nucleus. Despite having attended Stanford's rival UCLA, I let them install this hardware, including a set of wires and other battery-operated devices that mimic the production of a naturally producing bio-chemical called dopamine, the product the brain is robbed of by the loss of neurotransmitter cells. As long as I stay away from magnets and airport security screening equipment, I am a new man who has been singing the praises of the Stanford docs for the past seven years. That's enough science. Class dismissed.

And now, I am in training for my debut on the Gay Games tennis courts in Chicago. My chief trainers and all-around cheerleaders are my 84-year-old father and my 78-year-old mother. I try to get to the courts in the Presidio where my high-energy dog Michel (a pug-black lab mix) chases and returns the errant tennis balls. Unlike his owner's new brain, he is not wired to differentiate between fair balls and out of bound balls!

And my athletic and bestest good friend, Doug, helps me on the tennis court, even though he plays racquetball. The wrist is everything in each sport ... one whips while the other holds firm. The two sports are just not compatible at all, but Doug gamely helps me on the tennis court while I live in fear of stepping onto the racquetball court.

Everyone has their "story" — and this is just part of mine.

— Jim Haight, San Francisco, March 1, 2006