SB Tennis Misadventures

Pulling up into the parking lot, I nestled my car into a row of gleaming 'Benzes. Odd, I thought. This _was_ Santa Barbara, but I was going to play in a public park, not in one of the country clubs. A cry from a nearby court caught my attention. "ohmigod!" the anguished kid screamed as he made another error. A guy wearing a shirt with 4 vibrant colors (I kid you not) walked past and realization dawned; I was catching the tail end of a junior tennis tournament. The kid's meltdown was in full flight as I neared, and I smiled inwardly, glad that those days of junior tennis were behind me. I passed a group of well-heeled tennis parents hovering by and walked onto an open court for my regular match with Marcus, one of my buddies.

Despite being 42 years old, Marcus has a face and game of someone closer to half his age. He serves big, moves well, and has a point-ending forehand that he can drill into either corner. He's also extremely competent at net, and looks to pressure you by moving forward and ending points with the volley. The backhand is his weaker wing, and is the Italy of his game's Axis; it is the stroke that I target to take the advantage in rallies.

We begin our warmup, rallying from the baseline in a smooth, controlled manner. One of my favorite things about watching live tennis is to see players rally, making it look effortless as they strike the ball. I derive immense satisfaction from doing the same. Groundstrokes, volleys, overheads, and then serves. We've done this so many times now that I know when Marcus is ready to switch, and move over to the ad court before he says "Mind if I take a few from the other side?"

The set starts and it takes a few games for both of us to find the rhythm. At one point I hit the ball into the net 3 times in a row. "Just get the ball in," I mutter, totally disgusted with myself. I had played a match against Wooten earlier in the week and I was up 5-0 in the tiebreaker. Game is to 7, win by 2. A 5-0 lead is virtually unbeatable, until I proceed to drop the next 6 points, and eventually the set, 9-7. I couldn't even look at a tennis racket for 3 days after that match. I wonder if I'm feeling the after-effects. Anyway, Marcus and I play a scratchy first set, full of breaks, but I eventually come away with it 6-4. Now here comes the pain. In the last 5 (!) matches we've played, I've won the first set each time and then gotten obliterated in the 2nd. Marcus is some sort of 2nd set specialist. The pattern seems to be holding again and I'm down at 1-4, only one break, but struggling to stay in it. A couple of errors later I unleash a "cohoyo mielchina!" that they hear 7 courts down. Not quite "ohmigod!", but maybe I haven't left behind those junior days as much as I'd like to think. Marcus quickly runs out the rest of the set, 6-1.

On the changeover I pound Gatorade and try to get myself together for the 3rd set. I resolve to "miss less". If I make 4 errors in a game, I want to cut that to 2. If I make 2, cut it to 1. Just Miss Less. It becomes my mantra. The set starts and I'm very happy when I come out serving well. I had taken a look at some pictures of Sampras serving and noticed how far into the court he tossed the ball. From that position you wonder how the ball could possibly NOT explode into the corner. I copy this, tossing the ball farther out into the court than I think I should, and all of a sudden I've got extra pop on my delivery. After an easy hold I fight hard to get a foothold on Marcus' serve. "Miss less," I continue to tell myself. I eventually get the break and hold again to make it stand up. Marcus' serve disappears on him and he makes it easy on me, double faulting and pressing on the forehand. I wrap up the third set and the win, 6-1.