I kidded Nick about the way he's been churning out player after player these days, each of them helping bury U.S. tennis into a deeper and wider hole. Half-joking, I said many of my readers were wondering what was up with that? And was it true that Nick had made the USTA an offer to train eight youngsters, four of them hand-picked by the USTA and four by Bollettieri, with only one string attached: they had to be recruited as youngsters ("None of these 16 year olds," as Nick would put), and live the NBTA for 3 to 5 years.
Apparently, that was the offer, and it was turned down.
"I said to the USTA, 'You can take all the credit and get all the press. You just pick up the tab and we'll do the work." Nick wagged his head in disbelief and said, "Can you believe they wouldn't do it?"
I remembered that a few members of the Tribe had questions for Nick, so I asked about some of his top kids.
He's helping rain three promising juniors from Portugal, so it looks like TennisWorld spiritual adviser Miguel Seabra had better make sure his passport and visas are order. Nick reserved his highest praise for Michelle Larcher de Brito (the 13 year-old prodigy who won the Eddie Herr International 16-and-under at 12 last year). Near where were talking, a Japanese boy was lacing up his tennis shoes. Brad, who was jawing with us, said, "This kid is going to be awesome, probably the best player to come out of Japan since Shuozo Matsuoka. In fact, he's going to be better than Shuozo, for sure. And he's dedicated. He's up at like six every morning. You should see him! He eats these fish crackers and stuff."
Fish crackers and stuff, whoa!
It was both amusing and ironic to listen to Nick and Brad going on like this, partly because both of them have qualities I enjoy and value - frankness, animation and a blithe disregard for urbanity. Each of them, and Nick especially, is an easy mark for ridicule in the crowd that's awfully concerned with style points, even though the preoccupation doesn't earn them any, either, except among each other. And that's where the irony comes in. Brad is coaching a Scotsman, and Nick is as good example of an internationalist as you'll find in tennis; kids from the world over don't flock to the NBTA solely because Bollettieri is a dodgy, self-promoting, shades-wearing , opportunistic fraud.
Pretty soon, Nick was dragging me off to see his new War Room, a state-of-the-art internet center where Bollettieri's campers can review any match they recently played, on video, and then break down the actual footage into a kind of visual stat sheet, not only tallying things like unforced errors and errant first serves, but seeing them. You know what it's like to see a video of yourself hitting nine consecutive backhand passing shots over the fence? You can do it at Nick's.
Nick, BTW, is still on the court every day, pretty much from dawn til dusk. Awash in pro players and hotshot juniors, the academy has a pleasant and infectuous jocko homo vibe, driven by his loyal, former proteges, from Tommy Haas and Max Mirnyi to Serbian doubles specialist Nenad Zimonjic to Maria Sharapova.
In the afternoon, I watched Murray and Gilbert practice, and then we all went over to the IPI. By the time I wrapped up our work, it was almost suppertime, and dark. There were some kids by the pool - teen-age campers, playing cards, messing around with computers, talking on their cell phones, parading around in their hip-hugger jeans and faux hip-hop gear, some of the girls bearing the unfortunate results of what appeared to be their first experiments with eyeliner and lip gloss.
I walked through the nerve center, where the lights were on over the two show courts. Nick was on the stadium court, dressed in a sweatshirt now, supervising a workout between two pros and a player. The player was a girl, hitting groundstroke rockets off both wings and popping in a decent little serve. I paused, and Nick introduced me to the kid, whose name is Greer Glodjo. I lingered alongside her mother, a chiropractor named Deidre Collette, chatting. Soon we were joined by Collette's husband and Greer's father, Arman Glodjo, a mathematician and inventor.
We watched Greer working out. She beamed when she hit a winner and we all clapped. She ran like a deer, rallying with and even hitting winners against one of the pros, Reggie Moralejo. Greer seemed to really connect with Nick, even though he cut her no slack and asserted his authority if she started to hit lazy or flawed shots. At the end of one training segment, Greer and Reggie were both up at the net, exchanging volleys. They kept the ball in play, almost exclusively in the air, for a combined 94 volleys, and everybody collapsed in joy and laughter when the last ball was mishit and died in the net. That's right, ninety-four.
Oh. Did I mention that Greer Glodjo is six years old?
Nick is 75. I'll bet he'll be in the Player's Box at the U.S. Open, if and when Greer makes her debut there.
I said good-bye to Nick, told him it was to visit the again. I wished him luck with Greer, and said I had a funny feeling I'd seen this movie before. "You'd better stay in shape, ou're not getting any younger, you know?"
Nick laughed, but there was a note of wistfulness in his voice when he said, "Peter. There's never going to be another place like this, ever."
