I decided to join a racquetball league at the Boothbay Region YMCA. Having spent my careless days in college whacking the ball around the court, I naturally thought I would be way better than everybody else. 

I signed up thinking, “Wouldn't it be funny to enter as Ryan 'The Machine' Leighton?” All the ego driven hotshots would want to challenge me; I'd be the cat, luring its prey.

It worked.

The phone rang the next night. “Hey, ah Ryan...” said a familiar voice. “I saw that you’re ‘the machine,’ and I wanted a crack at ya. I'll play anytime, doesn't matter none to me.”

I recognized that southern twang. It was Mike Lewis, the folk artist from Southport.

Never in a million years would I have thought that old hipster had a chance to beat me at racquetball. 

The first time I encountered Lewis was back in September. I wrote a story about his Caribbean pirate ship he had moored in Cozy Harbor. It had roused the curiosity of many passersby.

It turned out Lewis wasn't an ego-centric racquetballer at all. He was much cleverer than that....

The next day Lewis showed up at the courts five minutes late, covered in wood shavings. It looked as if he decided to stop and chainsaw some trees on the drive over. 

He dropped his pants in front of everyone to reveal his sweat suit underneath. His appearance was unkempt, like a wild coyote. He peered at me through his rainbow rimmed spectacles. But none of that fazed me.

What did faze me was the sight of the giant green lollipop hanging out of his mouth.

I entered the court ready to bring down my opponent, but Lewis just stood there like a disinterested child. 

I hammered the ball as I rushed around the court, and Lewis just stood there, clinking his lollipop between his teeth.

I had an 11 point lead when Lewis went to the service line. 

Then the tables turned. Serve after serve, points racked up as Lewis took over. I'd hit low, he'd hit it high. I'd hit long, he hit short. I played harder, he played smarter. Point by point, Lewis systematically shut me down. 

Lewis unveiled a shot called the “Z-ball. He'd pop the ball in the front corner with the right amount of spin to send it spiraling diagonally to the back corner. If caught sleeping, the ball would bounce once, and then reverse its spin before dropping dead. A ball that defied physics, was this some kind of sick joke?

I never scored another point after our roles reversed. Lewis was now the cat toying with the mouse as he went on to beat me 15-11. By the end of the match I had Niagara Falls pouring off my forehead, and Lewis finally decided to take off his sweatshirt. 

“How come you're not breaking a sweat?” I asked. 

“'Cause you ain't makin' me run,” Lewis replied.

I discovered Lewis has been playing racquetball since the early '70s. Three wall, cutthroat, ceiling-ball; you name it, he's played it. 

As humbling as it is to have a crowd of children watching a 63-year-old mop the floor with me, I'm learning that the game is less physical and more mental. Lewis never beat me outright. He always played at my level, mimicking my style like a chameleon.

Beneath the hippy-dippy demeanor, Lewis is a perceptive man. He has experienced the world for all its weirdness and beauty, and taught me to learn from my observations. 

I'm now fully enrolled as a freshman at the University of Mike Lewis, and so whenever I want to take a walk on the wild side, I call the professor.  Most of the time I don't even bother to call; he just shows up, as if he's magically sensed that my world needs to be more warped than it already is. 

Lewis told me he wants to start a boat building company called “Catawampus Boatbuilders.” His motto: “Please dream responsibly, (and if it's nightmares you want, we can make that happen too).” 

Lewis said he built two new ice boats from recycled parts. One is made from an Adirondack chair, an umbrella and an inflatable palm tree. He's named it “Little balls of fire,” a tribute to Jerry Lee Lewis, his so-called cousin. He's been waiting for the perfect day to launch, but that's a story for another day.