On easy street to quarterfinals

Two weeks after my less than triumphant debut on the provincial tennis circuit, I'm scheduled to play another tournament. I can't wait to get on the court. I have my strength back with the days of vegan detox programs just a distant memory. I even have a whole entourage coming this time to watch. I'm pumped!

I leave very early so as to leave nothing to chance. The fuel tank is full, a map and directions to the place printed out, and my game face is on. As I turn into the street I begin to suspect something is not quite right. Suburban sprawl as far as the eye can see, with no sign off a giant tennis dome. As it turns out the tournament website has the wrong address posted...I'm at the house of the tournament director, not the club itself. I make a series of emergency phone calls and realize I'm not only in the wrong part of the city, but the wrong city altogether, with 30 minutes to spare. Speeding through traffic, I'm busy calling my fans and letting them know about the change in venue. The hi-way is packed, moving nowhere...I make an executive decision to get off and take a city street. I get there just in time.

Well, it's not as glam as the last place. The changeroom consists of a couple of lockers, and no bathroom. Worst of all, there is no spectator seating at court level. All the seats are in one room, behind plastic glass next to the scorer's table, looking onto an endless expanse of tennis courts...and wouldn't you know it, I'm scheduled to play on court 6. The very last one. Crushed, I make another call before my warm-up. I tell my entourage not to even bother coming. They'd need a 30-inch lens telescope just to make me out, and even then they'd only be able to conclude that I was some distant nebula being bombarded by fuzzy yellow comets.

I begin to warm up my serves, and do so for 20 minutes by myself. My opponent fails to show. I'm so distant from the scorer's table that I can't just walk over and ask what's going on, so I use my cell. "Yeah, hi, I'm calling you from court 6...is my opponent coming?". "Give him another 10 minutes, and if he's not there then he'll be defaulted", they say. By the time their signal actually reaches me out in court 6, I figure the 10 minute grace period has already elapsed. I mean, light only travels at 186,000km per second, so you do the math. I pack my gear and begin the long voyage back. I win by default.

My next match is scheduled for later that day. The five hours I have to kill I spend in another traffic jam trying to get home for lunch. I'm pissed off about the guy not showing up, I don't like winning by default, and I let it get to me. What's worse, I have saddle sores on my ass from spending all day sitting in traffic and my next opponent is the #1 seed. I haven't hit a ball all day. He beats me fairly easily, and I go home after my worst tennis experience ever, feeling awful but looking pretty good on paper at least. Thanks to all the technicalities I made it to the quarterfinals, winning more ranking points than ever before, and all without winning an actual match...catapulting me to the rank of 41st in the division. That's what a first round bye, a second round win by default, and losing to the #1 seed in the quarterfinals gets ya.

You always remember your first

Friday evening, April 14, 2006...my first provincially sanctioned tournament. I'm scheduled to play a Russian in the first round. He's been playing provincials for years according to his bio, ranked 11th, at this level. No worries. I'll take him down.

I drove myself to the facility. I decided to save the stretch limo for the finals. I grab my gear and head for the entrance. I confirm my arrival with registration. Funny, the cutie working behind the counter's never heard of me...I even had to say my name twice and spell it for her. Odd, but not uncommon. I'm not a household name just yet. So, I pull out my "GOLD" Visa to pay the entry fee, and suddenly she's my best friend. With that settled, I walk through the gates and step into tennis PARADISE!

I've never seen so many indoor courts before...a lavish lounge, excercise equipment of all sorts. "Towel sir?" someone says, handing me a towel so white it could cause snow blindness. I guess me salivating at the mouth drew some attention...I wipe myself dry and proceed to the locker area.

It is pristine. Carpeted, mirrors everywhere, complementary shaving kits, colognes, you name it...and of course more towels. I stake out a bench and locker at the end, and start to prep for my match. I stand in front of a mirror in my birthday suit, and give myself a quick pep-talk...just like Federer does, I would imagine. Then I throw on my tennis clothes, an awesome new pair of shoes, and storm out ready to do BATTLE!

I still have some time before I'm scheduled to play, so I go watch a friend play his match on another court. As I pass the court monitor on my way to a seat in the stands, he offers me a towel. Ok, what's with all the towels?

My friend's doing well so far, I think. I'm actually more concerned with exchanging pleasantries with his attractive friend who came to watch. Well that and desperately trying to find subtle differences between my new shoes and those being worn by my friend's opponent. To my horror, they look almost identical. Bastard! The prick beat me to it...then he ends up beating my friend as well. To add insult to injury, he took little notice of our attractive friend who was there to not only cheer us on, but also to distract our opponents. Hmm, the guy's got great fashion sense, ability to manhandle other guys on the court, and is unfazed by female beauty...I'm starting to think there's a direct corrolation between the three!? So, later that night I skipped my personal post-match pep-talk, and showered at home.

Now, back to my match...it starts off well enough. My opponent seems like a very nice guy, but not intimidating at all. I'm oozing confidence at this point, while he's drenched in sweat, and we haven't even started yet. To break the ice, I offer up a "hello" followed by a curious yet casual "so, did you have an earlier match or something?". He replies with a heavy Russian accent "No, of course not, this is my first match of the night" giving me a puzzled look, like I'm an idiot for asking. Hmm, Ok? Now I'm thinking he's the reason this club keeps so many towels on hand.

The match starts, I serve first and hold easy enough...nothing but smooth sailing from here on, right? Well, a wasted Friday evening and $40 later, I went home with a record of 0-1, and minimal ranking points...but I was finally on tennis' radar screens, sitting at 70th place, tied with all the other first-time losers.

EXCUSES: It is important to note that nothing is ever my fault. I reserve the right to make as many excuses for my poor performance as necessary. This time, aside from this being my first official tournament, I simply lacked the drive necessary to defeat Aquaman...and he was a real fighter. Allow me to elaborate. In the weeks prior to this match, my Naturopathic Doctor suggested I do a spring detox. This involves 2 days of starvation, followed by at least a week of nothing but steamed vegetables, rice and other low-toxin foods...so basically, more starvation. You see, for a life-long carnivore, living on a vegan diet even if just for a little while is tough. Eventually, the body caves in becoming dosile and less blood thirsty. Clearly, during my match I experienced these veganesque feelings of acceptance, like it didn't matter if I won or lost, and so, I lost. The other guy just wanted it more.

In the beginning

After years of playing in recreational leagues and local club tournaments, I started to feel like a big fish in a small pond. I never proved it on the court though, having never won a singles tournament in all those years, even losing to a teenage girl once, and sporting more than my share of runner-up trophies. My greatest claim to fame remains winning $50 at a tournament I paid $40 in entry fees. I used my career winnings as downpayment for a can of balls. But, I walk the walk, and look the part...if I could just get some game, I'd be all set. My on-court incompetence always comes as a surprise to most onlookers.

So, in April of 2006 I decided to join the big leagues. If I'm going to get my ass whooped, I'd rather it be by someone good. At 26, and never having taken a tennis lesson in my life, I'm not exactly doing this by the book. I begin my quest for greatness at an age when most tennis players have already peaked, but I'm not worried...I will dominate.