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.
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.
posted by Desiderius1979 at 7:57 PM
7 Comments:
I STILL LOVE YOU DESIDERIUS!
YOU'RE THE GREATEST TENNIS PLAYER EVER!!! XOXOXO
Wow, it's so flattering having fans like you Fana...hmm, Fana Noexista, how exotic...Brasilian, Portugese, maybe?!? Anyway, thank you so much for your continued support, but please, next time, don't throw your bra on the court during play hun...wait for a change-over.
You were supposed to sign-it an give it back to me, not wear it!
Hey, I set tennis fashion trends baby...following the crowd didn't get me this far. Besides, my policy has always been to autograph flesh, not articles of clothing, and although I'd love to make an exception in your case, it's not exactly easy to find ink that's visible on a black bra, so I'm stitching my autograph on. You'll have it back soon.
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