Desert Notebook: Part I

I have a few leftover notebook items from Indian Wells to share with you before we turn our attention to Miami, and I'll give them to you in two parts (Part II will be your CC post tomorrow, because it will contain more game and player related elements than this one).

On-site coverage weeks (mostly, Masters/Tier 1/Grand Slam weeks) are hectic, and TennisWorld   has, over time, become less diaristic and more coverage-based. I think this works for everyone. But one of the reasons I wanted to become primarily an Internet journalist is because of the opportunities it would afford to write with greater latitude and freedom about the game, the players, the ambiance and the general experience of covering tennis. You know, take you behind the curtain in various ways.

It was a good week in the desert for the Tennis magazine and on-line team: Steve Tignor, Kamakshi Tandon, Andrew Burton/Andrew and Andrew Friedman/Rolo Tomassi all were on hand. We also had  a good turnout of long-time TWibe members, including Beth (see lower photo of her lovely daughter, Missie, with Rafael Nadal), D-Wiz, Mike Potts, Nora (although she/he was  MIA at The Beer Hunter) and many others who elected to keep a lower profile.

Andrew F. never did appear in the writing rotation, but he was mostly there for a little personal R and R anyway. Unfortunately, he came down with a sinus infection that forced him, under doctor's orders, to remain in Indian Wells at least one extra day. If there's any place where having to stay an extra day can't exactly be described as combat duty, it's Indian Wells in March.

The Pacific Life Open is my favorite tournament to cover, which has something to do with arid western climate and the proximity of the San Jacinto mountains - and what I wouldn't give to have laid eyes on  Palm Springs (just ponder the name!) in the mid-19th Century, when sparkling desert springs were a greater - and far more critical -  attraction at Indian Wells than LG's (terrific) steak house, the PGA West golf course, or even the IW Tennis Garden. And I wouldn't have been in great danger of losing my hair, either, as the Agua Caliente Indians who occupied the land when pioneers first began to move through were a peaceable tribe.

One reason I like this tournament so much is because of the hospitality of the tournament godfathers, Charlie Passarell and Ray Moore (among other things, the press room features all-day donuts, soft drinks, coffee, candy, fruit and nuts), the great working conditions (the press work room,  interview room, and the player lounge are all on the same level in the stadium, and very close to each other), and the familiar, we're-all-in-this-together atmosphere in the press room, which is run by a great guy who sometimes posts here, Matt Van Tuinen.

Another reason I love covering Indian Wells is the hotel where many of us media types have stayed for the past few years, the Holiday Inn Express (Palm Desert). I've stayed in some Holiday Inns (and others in that niche) where I wanted to fling myself off the roof, but this one is terrific. In fact, I wouldn't trade it for the upscale places where I've rested my head here, which include the Miramonte (great outdoor flower beds), Hyatt Grand Champions, and the Esmerelda.

It's weird, but I tend to get depressed and feel oddly stifled in luxury surroundings, which is just as much of an irritant as polyester bedspreads and landscape prints that depict a glowing sunset at the beach or a pizza, I'm never sure which. I need warm, reasonably scaled, fairly humble surroundings to function at my best, or happiest.

Part of the attraction of the HIE is the scale of the place; it's a long, rectangular, three-story joint. It also has a friendly staff that is there when you need it, but doesn't fawn all over you. If there's one thing I hate it's hovering staff and people asking, every five seconds, Is everything all right, Mr. Bodo? What the hail do they think, I'm going to fling myself off the roof because the thread count in the sheets is disappointing?

The HIE is homey, with its cheery, primarily yellow color scheme and clean, understated rooms with floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors and balconies. This year, I was on the second floor overlooking the pool. I slept with the door open to the cool desert air, woke up to silence at 7 each morning, and by 9:30, as I got ready to leave for work, the kids were arriving at the pool, ready to shriek and cannonball:  Don't take it personally, mommy, but I've got the 'run by the pool' gene!

One morning, I stood on my balcony quietly for a few minutes and watched Andrew Burton swimming like Shamu with his 10-year old daughter, Cathleen, on his back; they were playing a game of some kind, in which daddy was typically required to act silly. Cathleen is a red-headed, freckled, unusually mature (and sweet) child - so much so that my first thought when I met her was "child actress." As it turns out, that's just what she is - but in an appropriate, low-key way.

The hotel also has a single, poorly maintained hard court out back, and the glorious all-styrofoam breakfast buffet, the kind at which you're not sure at any moment if you're taking a bite of your eggs, your plate, your cereal or its disposable bowl (over at his blog, Steve Tignor compared the sausage patty to a hockey puck). But they have fruit,  yogurt and cereal, so you're okay unless you're really into eggs Florentine and coffee that comes out of a  machine that makes more noise than a steam locomotive.

The vibe, for us, was sort of collegiate, although we paid the usual price for having enough money to buy all the beer we could drink: we (except for Kamakshi) all were old enough to buy it without being carded. As Steve put it, the HIE reminds him of all the places he ever stayed as a kid on a family vacation. Hmm. . . something tells me the dude snuck out one night and stole his first kiss alongside the closed pool at a place like this. It's been known to happen.

The view from my room was neatly divided into three distinct parts. The lower portion included the swimming the pool and lush lawn surrounding it; the middle portion was, unfortunately, eaten up by an extensive electrical substation that lay just beyond the high wall of the property - a maze of massive gray transfer coils, grid-work, and insulators. What do you want, it's a Holiday Inn. The upper third offered a fine view through clear desert air of the distant peaks, some of which are still snow-covered at tournament time. I just trained my eyes to look either up or down.

One morning, I was in the lobby and Andrew Burton came bursting through the stairwell door, dressed in crisp tennis whites, racket bag slung over his shoulder. I asked, "Playing the other Andrew?"

"He's coming through the tunnel!", Andrew declared of himself, heading straight for the hot cinnamon buns (which struck me as a pretty self-defeating pre-game meal). I noticed that there were a few other hotel guests dressed for tennis success. Since there's just one court here at the HIE, I wanted to warn the Andrews that they'd better go stake it out, pronto, which is just about  when Friedman barreled into the lobby in full Tora, Tora, Tora! mode and breathlessy cried, "Andrew, let's go. I've been out there, stretching, to hold the court. But I can't do it much longer."

And here I'd almost forgotten about the subterfuge and machinations that go into into securing a public court!

I complimented Friedman on is craftiness as we walked to the court, and he confided that Asad Raza, our MIA comrade who posts as Ray Stonada, calls him "AP (Always Prepared) Friedman." He is a bit compulsive. In college, he told me, he was dubbed "King of the Line," for his willingness to take one for the team in order to ensure that everyone got tickets to some concert or lecture (I say we petition him to change his screen name to reflect these revelations). This is a character asset, I believe, because where would we be without guys who are willing secure the perimeter?

In part II of this post, I'll get into some tidbits from players interviews and such. For now, though, Here's the quote of the week, which came to us from Mardy Fish, after someone in the presser on the  eve of his match against David Nalbandian mentioned how infrequently the two had played:

Mardy Fish: Yeah, David is someone I've played only one time, seem like a long time ago in 2003 quarterfinals of Cincinnati. You have a huge bug on your leg."

Question.  On your notepad.  What kind of bug is it?  (laughter.)

Mardy Fish:   And now it's on your leg.  I lost my train of thought. . .

More tomorrow. . .