[Here is Part 2 of Ray's report on his personal Greatest Road Trip in Sports. Use this post for OT discussion if you wish; Ray wouldn't want it any other way! Pete]
Two days later, in media res, things aren't so good. It's the middle of my semifinal match, in a tournament I enjoy playing close to my dad's home in West Virginia. and I'm down a set and 3-1. My second serve is maddeningly inconsistent, and I can't seem to hit out on my forehand, and the other guy, who must be fifteen years older than me, is coming in off every short ball I hit and volleying them away. He's got big, cushiony hands, the kind guys who hit really solid volleys tend to have. My dad, watching from the sidelines, looks almost bored with how badly I'm playing, which is getting me more down (note to tennis parents: try to look engaged and optimistic, no matter what the situation, even if your son should have grown up ten years ago). I'm pretty much resigned to going home.
It's funny how tennis tips can be reminiscent of Zen koans. A couple of days earlier, I had hit with the club pro and he told me the solution to my serving woes was simple: "Trust your serve." He noticed that I was slowing down my swing when I got tight, not imparting enough spin to it, and thus the ball was sailing long. Serving at 1-3 and down a set, my dad having wandered off to watch another match, I remember this advice and for some reason, it seems like something to hang to, a log in a chaotic river of thoughts. As dumb as it sounds, I keep saying "trust your serve" internally and it clears my mind somehow. Sometimes tips aren't really tips: they're just mind erasers. But they work: my serve stops sailing and my forehand stops landing short. I grind out the second set, 6-4.
As I do, I start realizing how tired my older opponent must be getting. He can't be enjoying the prospect of playing a third set in the ninety-degree West Virginia sun. And it's true: the third set goes quickly, and suddenly I'm into the final on Sunday. New life. After celebrating with another fried chicken sandwich and two 32-ounce thermos jugs of water, I go out the next day and take care of business in the final. Well, with one blip: after leading 6-2, 3-1, I lose serve and let my opponent back into the set, at which point I happen to notice my father looking down into the sunken clay courts at me. "Every crucial point and you make a mistake," he says. Thanks, pops. In a loud voice, I say, "Thanks for pointing that out," turn back to the court, and finish the job in a tiebreaker. Family psychodrama notwithstanding, it's a nice sensation.
Over the next few days I hit with a variety of people, and my game starts to feel better and better. First is a session with an assistant coach from a college tennis team. I can hang with him, but struggle to handle the heavy topspin, and rallies inevitably turn his way. Then I play a few practice sets with Sierra, a comely summer tennis instructor who during the school year is the number one player on her Division II college team.
I don't know why this is, but I always play more consistently against women. I wonder if it's true for other men. There is an easier, funner rhythm, a lack of any sour tension, and a sense of the game as a collaboration to hit the ball well rather than an establishment of alpha status. I love to practice with women. Against Sierra, I rarely miss, spin serves in with ease, and move fluidly around the court - basically I play the best tennis I can. Having played about ten days straight, I just feel so comfortable on court - I wish I could play this much the whole year. Sierra has that deep, nut-brown tennis players' tan. I look down at my arm, and realize: I have it too! Just in time to leave for my next stop: Indianapolis.
Having borrowed my dad's car (luxury! air-conditioning!), I race across I-70, to the site of Frank Dancevic's coming-out party at the RCA championships. Frank would have probably driven this same road himself, in his mad dash from Niagara Falls to Indianapolis after receiving a wildcard. There's something charming about the story of the Canadian number one's road trip - it strikes me that once you get below the top hundred in the world, you're making less than your average corporate lawyer, playing for love and that curiously soothing act: hitting a tennis ball. Just like me. Only several orders of magnitude better.
Just how many orders of magnitude becomes clear in Indy. A few minutes walk from my cousin's house lies a beautiful, unpretentious and unsnobby tennis/swim club, where she, her husband and four tots go for a dip. Meanwhile, I pay twenty-three dollars to hit with Nathan, a summer employee who plays tennis at Purdue University during the year. He's a good-natured, gangly twenty year-old with a rubber-band physique. He smiles as he gives me a taste of what a good college player is capable of: deep looping backhands to the corners and whipcracked forehands off of low balls.
The constant zzzzzz of heavy topspin gives his ball that menacing modern trajectory: more of a whale's snub nose than a parabolic arc. The only place I can hang with young Nathan is when I'm volleying, where I can win some points with deep volleys followed by shallow crosscourt dropshots. We finish up and I'm completely exhausted, dripping from head to toe. My arm is literally quivering from dealing with the topspin. We shake and Nathan grins, "Gotta run, I've only got fifteen minutes for lunch." "What do you do afterwards?" I ask. "Oh, a few more of these."
Next morning, I'm still shaking my head at that as I start the drive back to WV for the homestretch of my summer.
-R. Stonada