Not so relaxing station

"Evan's relaxing station, or dinner out?" I asked my date.  "Let's go to Evan's!" Kerry said.  She had just been there as part of her work Christmas Party, and had raved about the foot massage.  Our friends Kevin and Amber similarly only had good things to say about it. "Alright," I said, and sipped the last of my hot chocolate as we overlooked the water at Longboards.  I didn't know it, but the evening had just taken a turn for the worse.

Evan's is one of those blink-and-you-missed-it places.  The ambience when you walk in doesn't really improve either.  When I say a massage place you probably picture a peaceful spa, with artificial waterfalls and rooms smelling like an Aveda store.  Evan's is one gigantic room with dozens of people getting massaged next to each other, with only a few bamboo slats creating separation.  There's a sign-in booklet at the front desk, but no instructions other than a poster saying to keep your voices low, so asking questions isn't exactly encouraged.  After casting around looking for someone to talk to, I approached the booklet.  There was a place for your name, a box to select the length and type (40 min, full-body), and a number scale from 1-7 for intensity.  I noticed that most people had circled 6, but I'm not as brave, so I circled 5 and sat down on one of the waiting chairs.

Kerry noticed a computer screen showing men and women, masseuses presumably, with a countdown timer under each.  My brain started doing some quick math, trying to figure out which masseuse would be the 4th one done, and get me in line.  More importantly, if it was going to be a lady masseuse, or a dude..  It was going to be a dude.  Kerry went first, and she got a lady.  I briefly considered switching places with her, but decided the spectacle was not going to be worth it.  Finally, Fan (can we call him Fan?) got me and motioned to one of the chairs.  "No, full-body" I said.  Fan shook his head and said "Tables full.  Chair first, table after 5 minutes."  I went to the chair.

I settled into the chair and placed my face into a napkin Fan helpfully placed over the headrest.  And that's when the pain came.  Fan attacked my traps at full speed.  Andre Agassi never warmed up before he practiced.  His hitting partners famously had to warm up with someone else before they faced the onslaught of Agassi's groundstrokes.  I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that Fan is the Agassi of Evan's Relaxing Station.  If I had done a couple of arm circles then maybe... but this was no time for maybes.  Fan moved up to work on my neck with similar savagery.  I started questioning my friendship with the Falconers.  Mercifully the 5 minutes ended and Fan motioned me toward one of the tables. 

Ah, I thought, as I relaxed on the table to begin the enjoyable 35 minute home stretch.  BAM! Fan went to work on my traps again and I shifted around, trying to be a big boy.  This was a "5"?  I swear Fan was acting like I had scribbled in an "8 9 10" and circled 10.  He moved up for another round on my neck and through the hole my face was jammed in my lips started going numb.  Finally I got a little respite as Fan did some chiropractic-type things where he pushed down on the base of my spine with one hand and then pushed down on the upper spine/shoulder blade area with the other hand.  At last my body started to relax.  I worked on ignoring him when he started coughing and breathing in an exhorted fashion.  I tried my best to pretend it didn't happen when I heard a coworker come over and hand-feed him a lozenge.  But that all flew out of my head when, I kid you not, he circled back to my traps for a 3rd time.

I started ujjayi breathing like a 10th year yogi, "breathing" into my back as he worked his elbow into it, trying to loosen a knot.  "It's ok" he murmured.  Empathy!  I dried a tear on my little face paper towel, smiling at his kind-heartedness.  He repeated it.  No, it was a question.  A question!  "Maybe a little less?  Medium?" I asked hopefully.  Fan scaled back a little and I stopped breathing like a 60 year old emphysema patient. 

The massage ended and Fan walked me back to the front, handing me a water bottle along the way, which I gulped down gratefully.  I felt bug-eyed and disoriented as I searched around for Kerry.  There was only one woman in the waiting room, and I couldn't imagine where Kerry could have gone.  But it was Kerry!  I'm going to blame that one on the fact that the massage had made her hair so crazy that I didn't recognize her at first.  I went to sign the check.  Still reeling from the meat wringer I had just been through, I made a miscalculation and ended up leaving a 40% tip.  Fan gave me a big smile, but I was just as happy to escape through the front door!

SB Tennis Misadventures

"Fecundity. Fee-cun-ditty." The word echoed around inside my brain as I waited to receive serve. Sometimes this happens to me, especially with funny-sounding words of which I don't know the meaning. "Peripatetic" once bounced around in my head all day until I could finally get to a computer and look it up. I tried to focus - get the return back, make the other team play, let's go. I'd been invited to join the 'A' league in town, and I was in the try-out phase and wanted to make a good impression. No time for messing around with definitions now.

I was out on court 5 at Cathedral Oaks CC, partnered with Vern and playing against Ed and Dave. I've had history with Vern and particularly Ed; Marcus and I lost a tough 3 setter to him last year. Ed's serve is nothing to scream about, but he has excellent hands at net and a tricky return of serve. He'll often dump a routine return, but other times he'll surprise you with a hard shot, and he can yank his backhand slice in either direction. I got caught with my pants down trying to poach on his return. Nevertheless, Vern and I started off hot. We broke Dave to start the first set and held the rest of the way, picking up an extra break at the end of the set, 6-3.

I'd recently returned to action following a spell on the IR due to an abdominal strain. This had stopped me from serving the way I wanted to, but now I felt good and happy that the pain no longer bothered me. Vern was playing well too, and I felt hopeful that we could wrap this up in time to watch the top teams play. So far, the bottom of the 'A' league looked just like the top of the 'B's. However, the top 2 or 3 courts were working on a different level; mostly younger, ex-college players hitting the felt off the ball. I wanted to work my way up to those courts. If you wore a t-shirt displaying your alma mater, people asked if you played there. That's the main difference between the A and B leagues. That kind of assumption didn't happen in the 'B's.

Unfortunately, Vern and I fell behind an early break in the 2nd set, and I groaned inwardly. I'd yet to see those top teams play since my matches always seemed to go late. I served down 1-3, and quickly fell into a big hole with some poor volleying. I hit two good serves to bring us back to deuce, and then Ed started unleashing his bag of magical returns. A pattern established where we'd lose the deuce point because of Ed's return, but win at ad-out because Dave couldn't get my serve back in play. Thank goodness for Dave. I must have faced 3 more breakpoints in that game but Dave bailed me out every time; it was almost the auto-point whenever I kicked it to his backhand. Finally we reached ad-in. "Fee-cun-ditty... like fecal matter?" my brain tried to reason. I forced that thought process out and concentrated on closing the game. Holding re-energized us and demoralized them. We broke Ed's serve and tied the score up at 3-all.

After a quick hold from Vern, Dave quickly went up 40-0 against us. I was starting to rue the missed opportunity; if we broke them here I could serve for the match at 5-3, something I desperately wanted to happen. Dave had a pretty good serve and all his strokes looked solid in the warm up. However, he had a habit of letting the ball get behind him at net and missing the volley. He could also throw in a double fault. He did so here, and then Vern hit a winning return to bring us back to 40-30. Dave missed his first serve and gathered himself for a second one. I was super tight and trying to loosen myself up by visualizing good returns. Luckily, Dave let me off the hook with another double-fault, and we took advantage to break him. Three quick serves from me brought us to match point, and we closed it out for a clean 6-3, 6-3 win!

Afterward I tried to figure out the schedule for next week. The captain wasn't around so I didn't know if he wanted me to come back. I was talking with Todd Dickey, one of the nicer guys on our team. He told me to just show up, encouraging me that I was "one of the starters on the team." Ah, acceptance!

Nadal's first match, and the Spaniard retiring with the knee problem is...

David Ferrer!?! More details to come.

Update: Though Ferrer said he didn’t believe it to be a serious injury, he admitted to having problems with his knee prior to Wimbledon. “I cannot play. I prefer to relax for these few days and stand by for next week [in] Cincinnati… I want to take some time for treatment for this.”

Nadal had just gone up a break, 4-3, when Ferrer retired. Nadal had also broken his countryman to start the match, though Ferrer had gotten back on serve at 2-all after converting on his eighth break point. Nadal said: “I never expect this, this bad thing for David, so can say sorry to him and just wish him the very fast recovery to be ready for Cincinnati… And for me, it was nice [to] have a victory like this, and I say before [I’m] here to improve every day, to enjoy every game, every point.”

He said about returning to tour-level action: “The first movements is tough and hard to move well and to feel confident when you are touching the ball. But that's the normal thing. I must be happy, because I didn't play terrible. And the next round, I have another chance tomorrow to continuing to improve. Every match, every game is important to feel better for me.”

From atptour.com

SB Tennis Misadventures

(Ed. note: this is the 2nd and concluding post. Click here for part 1.)

Serving at 1-1, I went down early again. My legs were starting to go, and my serve lacked pop. I wasn't getting the free points that made holding in the first set so easy. I fought back to deuce, but Kent broke me anyway. Pissed off that I had spent myself trying to hold twice now, I decided to let the set go and hope for the best in the Match TB. Swinging away, I ironically broke Kent back to 2-all, but it didn't matter. I went down again in my serve, and then stopped trying. I would powderpuff a serve over, then Kent would whack the return back for a clean winner; I didn't move an inch. After a second such point he looked over at me, surprised, but I think he had a good idea of what was going on. I determined that I wasn't going to make an effort on his serves, but I also wasn't going to let him ace me four times in a row; I wanted to drain his energy stores a bit before we got to the breaker. I'd hit a return to the corner, or a drop shot to make him sprint, then let him hit the winner to the open court. My service games were a little tougher; when I'd try to serve my leg would start to cramp up, and my right forearm started to lock in place. Kent ran out the rest of the second set 6-2 in 10 minutes, but I used that respite to start gathering energy for the Match TB.

The short breather did me good, and I stayed with Kent in the beginning of the 'breaker. I pushed to stay with him to 5-all, and I think he was surprised and maybe put a little off-balance. Previously I wasn't running for any balls, and now I was back to rallying with him. I put together a few good points, and with a couple of teammates exhorting me from the sidelines, I went up 7-5. The pressure got to Kent and he threw in a double fault. Finally I served for it at 9-6. My body was shaky as I got up to the line, and I decided to put everything I had into a first serve in an effort to close it out. Net. The adrenaline was coursing through me so much that I could feel my arm trembling as I went into my service motion again, but I got the second serve in and maneuvered the rally until I could swing away at a forehand, and then it was all over! I won 10-7! Kent slammed a ball to the back fence but greeted me at the net with a friendly shake.

I headed out to the shade next to the courts again and the excitement really began. Two of my teammates lost in 3rd set tiebreakers so we were down 2-1. The fourth match also went to a 3rd set tiebreaker, but we pulled it out and were even 2-2, with one match still to go. It went, you guessed it, to a 3rd set tiebreaker. At this point I was sitting with my friend Yun, drinking water and yelling at our teammate still locked in battle. All of a sudden my abs locked up, and I doubled over in pain from the cramps. I flopped down onto the concrete to try and stretch it out, to no avail, and soon the Quinine Guy was running at me. Unbeknownst to me, our teammate took a lead in his Match TB, and all of a sudden there was a lot of commotion; guys were yelling for him, guys were yelling at me, and I was doing quite a bit of yelling myself.

Two minutes after the pills, the cramps in my stomach started to subside. Robin, our captain's wife and a former Registered Nurse, was by my side trying to get me to drink. I took huge gulps of an energy drink but I couldn't get fluids back into me fast enough. My leg seized up and I skinned my elbows on the pavement as I tried to move into a position to stretch it. I was channeling memories of high-school soccer preseason, where I'd encountered similar cramps before, trying to remember what I did back then to make it stop. Back then a coach knew what was happening and helped me stretch out; this time I could only give vague directions to Robin to bend my leg this way or that. My hamstring spasmed and seemingly my whole leg locked up, even my foot arched and my toes dove downward as if pulled by some invisible force. "My big toe!" I screamed, "pull it up toward my knee!" "Fuck! FUCK!" shouted my friend Yun, feeling totally helpless. I continued to try to drink and stretch out, but nothing gave me long relief. After 30 minutes Yun asked if he should call an ambulance, and I screamed my affirmation.

EMTs soon surrounded me and got me stabilized. One noticed a bruise on my right inner elbow and asked if I recently had blood drawn. I mumbled that I gave blood 4 days ago. "What?!" was the incredulous response. They strapped me into a gurney, and wheeled me out through a throng of tennis players, who were applauding the actions of my saviors. Supar embarrassing. As I was leaving I saw Kent, and I jokingly said to him "You did this to me!" One of his teammates yelled back "Yeah, but you still beat him and we're never going to let him forget it!"

I got rushed off to the Emergency Room where the doctors hooked me up with an IV. Right back into the same arm that had the blood draw. My right elbow was a purply bruised mess. Meanwhile, the roasted red pepper sauce from my earlier Tuscan Turkey wreaked havoc on my stomach. I'm already predisposed to acid indigestion, and now it felt like lava was swirling around down there. However, three hours and two bags of IVs later the cramping was gone, and I gingerly left the hospital.


Oh, and the match? Our guy held a match point at 9-8 in the 'breaker, but lost the next 3 points and the match. However, since we had won the first match so easily and barely lost the second, there was a chance that we could still advance out of the round robin if San Diego beat Temecula. That exact thing happened, and the team played Sunday, sans Jesse, and captured a 4-1 victory. See you in Sectionals, baby.

World Team Tennis Gets Ugly

This video clip is unreal. First Leander Paes drills Robbie Kendrick with a volley that fires up John McEnroe, and then Kendrick responds by ripping a serve right at Paes. I'm not too sure what set Paes off initially...

SB Tennis Misadventures

(Ed. note: due to length, this recap is split into two posts.)

"Arrrrrrghh!" I groaned in anguish as I flipped over on to my belly, anything to try and loosen the knots forming in my abdomen muscles. I rolled over on to my back again and tried arching, but succeeded only in firing off another round of back spasms. My body was rebelling against me in response to the last 4 hours, determined to not let my brain make the decisions anymore. Someone, a stranger, rushed up to me, spilling pills out into his palm as he thrust it at me saying, "Here, take these! They're quinine!" I cast a doubtful glance at him, but asked "How many should I take?" "All of them," he replied. Desperate, I grabbed the pills and swallowed them in one gulp. I flopped over again. I couldn't find a position that would allow me to relax, and started to panic about what would happen if I didn't find it soon. Shutting my eyes against the pain, I dropped my head to the dust-caked pavement, a situation that normally would've left this germaphobe running for the nearest bottle of Purell.

Eight hours earlier, I had set off bright and early for the 2 hour trip down to Long Beach for the USTA playoffs. Our team had been drawn into a round robin with scheduled matches at 11:30am and 2:30pm, and the forecast called for a general heat wave to be sweeping across Southern California. They weren't kidding. I pulled into the parking lot at 10am and felt the heat as soon as I opened my door. We had two courts reserved at the El Dorado Tennis Club at 10:30am, and I went through a languid warmup, determined not to waste much energy before our matches started. These tennis playoff sites usually have a tennis-themed carnival atmosphere to them. The organizers find a site with plenty of courts, and a couple hundred players descend on the location for the weekend, milling around watching, eating, and playing. At 11:15am we gathered under the canopy where the organizers had set up a headquarters, replete with a PA sound system. The booming voice called out the rules and regulations, including a warning that due to the heat, frequent hydration would be very important. And then they started to call out the matches. As each pair were called out the players would step forward while their teams cheered. This was almost like high-school wrestling, where running through a tunnel of your teammates got you psyched up enough to entertain the idea of rolling around on a mat with a complete stranger. Anyway, suddenly I heard "Jesse and Bernie!", and I walked up to the front table to shake hands with my opponent, and off we headed to Court 2.

Warming up, I noticed that Bernie sliced every backhand and had a decent forehand. He also had the slightly annoying habit of grunting every time he hit a serve, even a second serve. We started the match and he surprised me by coming over the ball and hitting topspin on his one-handed backhand. Still, I was feeling pretty smooth and was able to take control of the rallies, running him side to side until I found an opening for a winning shot. My serve also felt good, and I threw in a couple of aces and kick serves he struggled to return. My normal hitting partner, Marcus, is so fast that I rarely hit outright winners and almost never ace him, so it's always a pleasant surprise when I play someone else and my forehands whistle through the court, unencountered by the opponent's racket. I wrapped up a fairly routine 6-2 opening set and we started in on the second.

I continued to cruise, feeling particularly happy with one sequence in which I chipped a backhand return deep crosscourt and followed it in to the net, anticipating his down the line response and cutting it off with a forehand drop volley. The heat was starting to get to me though. At 3-0 I started to feel overheated. I thought that I was going to need to run to the bathroom at any second, but I tried to force it out of my mind and wrap up the match asap. I did just that and got off the court with a 6-1 second set, and headed toward the shade of the nearest tree. My teammates were performing similarly well and we won the match 5-0. We headed out to Quizno's for a quick lunch, and I had the Tuscan Turkey sandwich in a decision that would come back to haunt me later.

Back at the Tennis Club, our captain was working out our lineup for the second match. We had one extra player to sub in, and the question was who was going to sit out. The captain decided that our other singles player would be sitting out to rest up for Sunday's match. I talked to him and said that I thought I had about one more set of good singles left in me. I'd prefer to play doubles for the second match due to the heat, but if no one wanted to play singles then I'd do it. As I was the youngest player on the team by a solid 20 years, he kinda looked at me and said "You're playing singles."

My opponent this time around was named Kent. A sturdily-built guy from Temecula, I guessed he was in his mid to late 30s. San Diego, the first team we faced, would be taking on Temecula at 5:30pm in the third and final match in our round robin, so that meant this was Kent's first match of the day. His fresh legs advantage was tempered by my calm; I had gotten rid of the first match jitters a few hours earlier. Kent was a step up from Bernie, although their games were very similar. Each had a deceptively punchy forehand, and a one-handed backhand. Kent's serve packed a little more power though, and he placed his groundstrokes better.

Right from the warmup I could tell that the heat would factor into this match for me. I needed to conserve energy, which in a weird way boosted my game. Instead of worrying about chasing down every shot he hit, I played more aggressively and took control of the rallies early, looking to end the point by wrong footing him on a forehand or charging in for a volley. Kent helped me out as well - his style of play seemed designed to keep points short. He held to open the match but I had chances to break him. My serve came up and happily I found that I still inhabited The Zone, throwing down a few aces and generally holding with ease. I broke him early in the set and again to close it, 6-3.

I was back to my grape Gatorade tricks on the changeovers, and I was drinking more than usual. Water too, anything to try and cool down. I could feel my energy sapping away though, and I served to start the second set. After going down early, I fought back to deuce and had to save several break points before ultimately holding serve. I was up 1-0, but had spent a ton of energy to get there. The format for these matches is best of 3 tiebreak sets, but if you split the first two sets, you play a Match Tiebreaker to 10 in lieu of a full third set. My mind started exploring the possibility of throwing the second set to conserve energy and trying to pull it out in the Match TB. Kent served and held in what felt like 10 seconds. 1-all. Excuses were just pouring through my mind at this point; it's super hot, you're used to Santa Barbara weather while this Temeculan probably wears a winter coat when it's in the 70s... you're the only one playing two singles matches, everyone will understand if you don't have enough energy to win the second one, etc. Suck it UP! I screamed at myself.

(How did things end against Kent? Did the heat beat me down like a red-headed stepchild? Check back on Wednesday for the Emergency conclusion!)

Andy Murray Likes Kissing Toes!

Andy Murray turned Gulbis upside down and wiped the court with him, winning 6-2, 7-5, 6-3. The official stats for the match recorded just 5 unforced errors from Murray. Even taking Wimbledon's generous statisticians into account, that's an exceptionally clean match.

Gulbis though, continues to disappoint. I didn't really expect him to beat Murray after the horrendous year he's had, but I'm really starting to question whether he'll ever live up to the lofty expectations I had for him. Despite his considerable power Gulbis wasn't able to hit through Murray, who chipped balls back into play and waited for Gulbis to make the mistake. Ernests agreed in his surprisingly honest press conference, giving away the secret to beating him: "I think before the match he exactly knew how he's gonna play against me. He took a really good tactic. He was giving me slice to my backhand, that kind of shot which I don't like, because I have to hit it, you know.

He hits the shot with no power. He breaks the rhythm of the game. Then I have to hit it. I can hit it once, twice, third time, then I make mistake. You know, I'm not consistent enough from the baseline to go long rallies.

He perfectly knew, and he slices very good. He didn't miss it. I think perfect tactic."

Okay Ernie, prepare yourself for an onslaught of slices to your backhand in the future. Speaking of press conferences, here's Murray explaining bets his team makes to keep training interesting:

Q. Can you tell us a little bit about the forfeits you've been handing down to members of your coaching team?

ANDY MURRAY: No, I don't hand them down to anyone. We play football, and whoever loses the game has to do whatever the forfeit is. But one of the parts of the forfeit is that when you lose, you know ‑‑ my fitness trainer was walking around with a cricket helmet on yesterday.

If someone asked you what it's for, you're not allowed to tell them that you've lost a bet. You just have to say that you like it and whatnot.

Q. Just on the forfeits, they're very funny. But who chooses them? Because you never seem to lose. Is it you who sort of says you have to do this or whatever?

ANDY MURRAY: No. Before the start of each game, we decide what the forfeit's gonna be. And then, yeah, I'm better than them, so I don't lose as much (smiling).

When we play for small forfeits I lose the games more, because [I] don't concentrate as much. It doesn't bother me like when we play for push‑ups and you have to kiss the other guy's toes. Like I'll lose them.

But if it's stuff like a cricket bat or you have to get lunch for everyone and stuff, I concentrate a bit harder.

So let me get this straight: you'd rather kiss another d00d's toes than walk around with a cricket bat?