The invitation came from Jan via text, and without even looking at my calendar or inquiring how much the tickets would cost, I responded with an immediate hard yes. We would meet on Thursday at the Oyster Bar in the catacombs of Grand Central Station around six. We’d take the escalator down into the underbelly of our metropolis to the LIRR and catch the commuter train out to Forest Hills. I know what you’re thinking: Tennis! On grass! And you’re not entirely wrong. The wealthy Tudor suburb of Forest Hills was once the elegant home of the US Open, in the days of Stan Smith (see my all-white sneakers — my Stans — which came back into fashion one day in 1995 when I strutted my pristine pair down Bedford Avenue).  A few steps into the crowded bar and I was met with the warmest reception from Jan, who handed me an icy Tito’s (one of the two he was double-fisting). I began to chill as the vodka took effect, falling into a harmonious reminiscence about the long haul of thirty-plus years …