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by Pete Bodo
Howdy, everyone. Just got back from Vieques and Culebra late last night; it was a wonderful trip (except that part when I spilled a full cup of scalding coffee in my lap on the flight home, while seat-belted in. Want to talk about torture?). If you like beaches, that pair of tropical gems ought to be on your must-see list. And you don't have to deal with too many grim, binocular-toting eco-tourists in their zip-off pants and windbreakers, whom so many natives despise because they're not very friendly and cheapskates to boot.
Apart from having a great week with my family, I especially enjoyed a few early mornings spent wading the bonefish flats or fishing for tarpon that had cornered vast shoals of bait fish in a small bay. It was a round-the-clock slaughter. There's nothing like seeing half-a-dozen gleaming, 50-pound silver tarpon suspended in a green wave as it curls right before breaking on the beach. If you've never seen a school of big fish hammering bait, well, it's a sight to behold. One thing nature has taught me is that we're awfully prudish about life and death. In nature, both are abundant, intertwined, and relentless, whirling together like a giant wheel of fire.
Enough of that, though. Let's get to the tennis. It's always instructive to take a break, because when you return you find how much actually happens, and how quickly. I'm still trying to catch up. So, Roger Federer has some sort of weird lung infection that will keep him out of action for two weeks - or more. I hope he's recovered in time for Miami, my next tournament. I've been anticipating the guilty pleasure of watching him bust up another racket. I kind of miss "angry Roger." Pitching a hissy fit is about the only thing the guy isn't very good at, but it's fun watching him try - kind of like watching most guys trying to play tennis when he's on the other side of the net. And, of course, there's the more conventional joy of watching Federer work his magic and asking yourself, Hey! how'd he do that?
And with Rafael Nadal pronouncing himself ready to go again, the prospects for the two big Spring hard court events are pretty tantalizing. It's high time we had another Federer vs. Nadal smackdown, right? It's always the same, and always new.
And now we can all watch said smackdown clutching a. . . Corona Extra!
I get a kick out of people who get all fired up about exotic beers, including any of the bewildering micro-brews, or those honey, wheat, soybean, chick pea or asparagus beers. I don't need no stinkin' artsy-fartsy beer with a cute name (Fat Tire, anyone?). Most of them are way too heavy and taste as if they've been filtered through one of Rafael Nadal's socks after he's just completed a long three-setter on clay. Give me a crisp, light lager any day. But even I was surprised by the results of this beer survey. You mean the Miller Lite, Coors Lite, Corona and Labatt's Blue I've been drinking all these years are actually considered good beers? I feel right superior. Always trust your, er, gut, right?
Anyway, when I first read the release from the ATP I thought the "Extra" was some new, more expensive articulation of the Corona I've come to know and love. You know, an attempt to capture that upscale demographic that simultaneously sustains and haunts tennis in order to advance the mythology of some new designer beer. Actually, it seems that the word "Extra" is irrelevant, if not exactly redundant (something I should have known, given how often Mr. Corona has lived his brief, happy life in my fridge). "Extra" is the only kind of Corona there is. There's no Corona Regular, or Corona Ordinary. Like people, every Corona is "special."
And Kumbaya to that.
I may be especially vulnerable to the Corona mystique at this moment, having just returned from the islands, but I think this is a great hook-up for the ATP, as I say in our latest podcast. I've had it out the wazoo with luxury automobiles, financial services, and high-tech companies. I've got nothing against them, per se, and appreciate the roles they've all played. But all of them project a baby boomer vibe that leaves me cold, even if I am part of the target demographic. Hey, not every tennis fan out there is an practicing personal injury lawyer or orthopedic surgeon. Perhaps Mr. Adam Helfant has noticed this.
Corona, by contrast, brings a bit of Jimmy Buffett to tennis, and that's a good thing. Or at least a refreshing thing, if like me you've OD'd on the sight of yet another Angelina Jolie lookalike in a gauzy evening gown and tiara slipping into the passenger seat of a fancy car. All the associations I can think of for Corona are anchored in the basic idea of fun. Just-screwing-around, flip-flop fun (as opposed to training-for-a-marathon fun). And the Corona affiliation might even allow all my fellow aging baby boomers and the old squares and suits with whom tennis is still big to feel a little. . . young. And as the bard has said, "Everybody throw your hands in the air. . ." .
Ask yourself: When was the last time I saw a guy in khaki slacks and a pink Ralph Lauren polo shirt ask for a Corona instead of a Michelob or a gin-and-tonic? Tennis sponsors have spent a lot of capital touting the the wonders and joys of the upscale consumer life, which is one that most tennis fans view, if they bother to look at all, with their noses pressed to the glass. Or one that leaves the sport tainted by snobbery. You know the difference between a Corona Extra and Lexus GX? Everybody can afford the Corona! That's not a bad thing for either the Corona or ATP executives.
Let's drink to that!