BuggBlog

Why do people think tennis is a sport of overprivileged dunderheads?

Because of dipshits like anti-Obama conservative Joyce Capron:

Today at tennis, after I made a hard point, my partner offered the Obama fist bump.

"I don't do that," I said, and I gave her a stern look.  It's not the first time I've run into Obamabots on the courts; the game attracts argumentative, competitive types (of which I may be one).  I didn't stop and lecture the O'Bot, because Wasting Indoor Court Time is a Sin.  I just high-fived her with my racquet, and went on playing.

To waste court time is a sin, to be a dipshit is divine.

I'm thinking Capron must be sheer joy as a doubles partner, the type who tempt you to lose on purpose so you can get away from them as quickly as possible. The same way you should read her columns, I would guess.

(via Wonkette)

Jesus, take the volley

On Saturday, I went out to a local park with Cavin and our friend Robin to hit some balls -- mostly just to get in some practice, much needed since my most recent tournament flame-out. As walked to some empty courts on the far side of the park, I noticed that one of the men playing on the nearby courts was looking at us -- at me -- intently as we passed. Years of habit naturally made me wonder if I was being that openly cruised on a Saturday afternoon in a Virginia public park. I would have considered that an ego boosting perk.

When we got the entrance to the empty court, the man came up to the chain-link fence at the end of his court and asked us, "Are you here for the mixer?"

Oh, well, I wasn't being cruised, then -- pretty unlikely that there would be a big gay tennis mixer going on. We all shook our heads and said we were just coming by to hit.

"Would you like an invite?" he asked.

And that's the point where I got confused. He asked a few times if we wanted to be invited, which just didn't make sense to me -- was he inviting us to play with them or to join their group? There were about eight or so people set up around the picnic tables and on the court, obviously set up for a social afternoon. But what kind of social wasn't clear. Finally, after some flustered head-nodding from me, we all just said "Thanks" and went off to our own court to hit.

A bit later, as I was getting ready to serve, I saw the group had gathered underneath a tree at the end of the court. Everyone bowed their heads as the man was speaking -- reading aloud, I realized, from the book of Isiah.

Oh, well, that explains that.

Going all the way back to my youthful church-going days, I've never liked the passive, bait-and-switch approach to witnessing: Come play and have fun with us! Ulterior motives? Of course not! We just want to have fun and share our picnic with you! Here, have some Kool-Aid. How's that hot dog? Need some more mustard? We have plenty! Oh, by the way, have I mentioned that Jesus is worried about the state of your immortal soul?

It's not like I would have said "Sure!" if the man had been straight up and asked if we wanted to play some tennis with his church-group mixer. But at least it wouldn't have been so dang awkward.

Incidentally, you can tell my religious upbringing still lurks below my surface from the way that I instinctively used "dang" in that last sentence, rather than my usual "goddamn" or "fucking." So, Jesus, mission accomplished. For now.

No rain on our parade

No more tennis thanks to the rain, but here we are at Nellie's making the most of the evening. Tennis queens rule!

Oh, Mother Natire, you joker*

So here we are hiding from the rain. Cavin and Robbie are giving a big wet hello. Waiting to see if we get back for more tennis, or if the whole gay crew is decamping to Nellie's.

*Okay, fine, you try to type an error-free headline on an iPhone whilst juggling a Blue Moon and the phone and simultaneously try to avoid being pushed back out into the Ark-deserving deluge just outside the tent. I meant Nature. And I'm still annoyed with her, even though the evening was perfectly enjoyable, if rather damp.

Pro tennis + nudity = my dreams come true

When I was a teenage tennis player back in the days before the web, these sorts of things only existed in my overactive imagination:

That's Fernando Verdasco, one of my favorite Spaniards (among many), appearing in Europe's Cosmopolitan for a men's cancer charity. Even though he generally hovers around the low 2os in his ranking, he's on my favorites list not just for the looks -- he has a great game when he's on. He just doesn't seem quite able to believe he's as good as he is when it really matters.

The ATP site also had this interview with Verdasco to, um, flesh the story out a bit.

A quick and painful ending

Watching Rafael Nadal obliterate Roger Federer in the French Open final yesterday was as impressively boring as watching a French Open women's final. I don't mean that women's tennis is boring -- far from it -- but for the past few years, the women's finals at the French have been dominated by one-side affairs where a superior player puts the beat-down on nervous up-and-comers. For tennis fans who like to see a truly competitive match, it's a let-down.

This year was a reversal.  Federer got spanked by Nadal -- and if that had happened literally it would have been far more interesting and exciting than the match we saw -- the day after Ana Ivanovic won an impressive, but competitive, final over Dinara Safina. While the score may look like a bit of a blowout, Safina stayed in the match in a way that I don't think a lot of other players would have (cough Kuznetsova cough), and while she was outplayed, she wasn't outmatched.

Federer, on the other hand, was outmatched. Painfully. I had hoped this would be the year he broke through in Paris -- given the lackluster start of his year, it seemed like a good time for a moment of historical irony where the great champ reaches his final goal just when the world was convinced he couldn't -- but he broke in a completely different way. I don't think the loss diminishes Federer in any real way -- when it comes to clay, he's obviously the second-best player after Nadal. But it does set up some interesting plot lines for Wimbledon when, I have a feeling, the two will meet in yet another final.

Here's hoping that one will be both impressive and entertaining.

Paradise calls, and she ain't cheap

Settling in this morning for the first Roger Federer v. Rafael Nadal final of the year, this is one of the  tournaments where you can appreciate the beauty of the facility as much as (or even more so) than the quality of the play. Really, if you were to die and go to tennis heaven, I'm pretty sure you'd find something like the Monte Carlo Country Club (though maybe with a hard court, depending on your preferences). The view is gorgeous, and I imagine the smell of the the water coming in over the stands would only accentuate the experience.

Of course, it would be easier for me to pass through the eye of a needle than to be rich enough to enter this particular kingdom of heaven. Lucky for me I'm an agnostic.

The tragedy of the B level tennis player

The worst thing about being a B-level tennis player is that, often, you're just good enough to know how bad you suck.

Basically, I can hit the shit out of a tennis ball. Take me out on the court to casually bang a few balls around and I can consistently hit deep, penetrating top spin forehands with good direction. My two-handed backhand will find that perfect height over the net and angle sharply off the court. My form will be not quite textbook but certainly on-spot enough to show that I've had the benefit of good tennis instruction early in life. I have no problems just hitting with players one or two levels above me -- just warming up can be a Zen like experience where the limbs move with the order and precision that can only be summoned through on-court calm.

Then I start to play a match and, as they say, it's a whole 'nother story.

Of course, this is because when you hit a ball in practice you generally want it to come back so you can hit it again. In a match, the guy across the court doesn't want that and will do what he can to make you miss. It's harder to hit a forehand when you're scrambling around way too far behind the baseline.

But that's all doable, if you have the basic skills in stroke production and point c0nstruction, which most strong B players have. The problem is all that stuff going on between the ears. If I'm up two breaks in the first set, I'll suddenly think, I just have to get the ball in and the set is mine, a thought which I quickly follow with, No no no! Don't change anything you're doing, keep up the pressure! a thought that I then quickly follow with a nervous double fault. Or my borderline ADD will kick in just as I have a chance for an important service break and I'll spend three points trying desperately not to think about the book I'm reading or the project I'm finishing or the Battlestar Galactica episode that's upcoming or the fact that I really like ice cream.

In this, I am generally unsuccessful.

Some days, however, it all comes together and my mind calms down and my body complies and my game elevates itself by a level -- even two -- and I experience that moment that always brings me back to the court. The moment where everything clicks, everything is clear, everything works.

Which makes it all the more disappointing when the next day I once again play like the B that I am.

Disclosure that proves a point: In the photo above, I'm serving in a match at the Liberty Open in New York. I won the first set easily, and was up two breaks in the second. I proceeded to lose it anyway.

Democrats are driving me to distraction

After this morning's post, I was going to take a day or two off from political topics, mostly because my far-better half is beginning to get really annoyed by my primary election antics. I think he hit his limit last night when Hillary Clinton began listing all the states she had "won" and she said "Florida" and I screamed "Bullshit!" and then it became one of those awkward nights where we didn't really say anything else to each other beyond "Good night."

So I was going to focus exclusively on non-political topics that are of great interest to me, like, who has the best ass in men's professional tennis. Believe me, that's something I could go on about for hundreds, thousands, of words. And not just about Rafael Nadal. There's something special about Guillermo Cañas every time he turns away from the camera as well. Oddly, it does seem that all the truly fine asses in tennis hail from Spain or South America. I'm not going to hazard a guess why, but like the blue in the sky and the green in the grass, I'm going to take it as a sign of a wonderful, wonderful world.

But politics keeps breaking through. Specifically, all the Clintonian antics and superdelegate shenanigans that make me weep for the fact the so many Democrats seem determined to go to any lengths to lose what should be a grand slam election year. How so? Well, let's see:

Ohioan superdelegates are attempting to extort Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton by withholding their endorsements until one candidate surpasses the other in promising radically protectionist trade policies that will not only hurt our overall economy but would further damage our already tattered status on the world stage. Way to go Democrats! You've shown that by sticking with the outdated and undemocratic superdelegate system you can gin up an election that's even fundamentally more screwed up, unfair and politically damaging than Bush v. Gore in Florida. Which candidate is most likely to give over their first born for the Ohio support? Get ready to take one for the team, Chelsea!

Then there's the always ethical Harold Ickes and Terry McAuliffe putting out their spin that the delegates Barack Obama has won through the primary and caucus system -- the rules of which have been in place for longer than his children have been born -- aren't actually pledged delegates, but are simply "automatic" delegates no different from the superdelegates that Clinton is so vampirically courting. Voting? Who needs that trouble? According to the Clinton calculus, the nation could save a lot of money having a handful of primaries in the states that count -- those would be the states she's won -- and letting everyone else eat cake or something. It is not hyperbole to point out that this is exactly the kind of parseltongued, doublespeak, backstabbing political maneuvering that would be on display in the event of a Clinton restoration.

Politics is a game for the tough. Lying is a game for the venal. You pick which sentence the Clinton campaign fits best.

Then there's the ongoing attempts to seat delegates from Michigan, where Obama wasn't even on the ballot, and Florida, where he didn't campaign -- all according the the agreements and rules that Clinton signed onto before the primary. Yeah, Howard Dean, the DNC leadership, the Michigan and Florida legislatures, and their respective governors all bear more responsibility for this clusterfuck than the candidates. But the fact remains that Clinton had the chance to protest on behalf of those states before this all started -- she chose to stroke the egos of Iowa and New Hampshire instead. Rules may be made to be broken for elementary school students, but not for democratic elections.

Oh, and then there's the Clinton "Well, he can be my vice president" approach. Because after amassing a huge debt, insulting half the states in the nation, losing 12 states in a row, insulting black voters, claiming that being First Lady counts as political experience except in those cases where plausible deniability is needed, not releasing tax returns, trailing in delegates by a consistently significant amount, and softening up her opponent with Republican-ready attack ads, Clinton is totally in a position to dictate to Democrats who the lower half of the 2008 ticket is going to be. Hey Hillary! Maybe you can save him a seat at the back of your bus while you're at it!

Damn it, I'm hyperventilating again. Time to go catch some Cañas action at the Tennis Channel Open. At least there I know the rules won't be changed in the middle of the match.

Fresh air, sunshine and a crappy serve

With the temperature pushing close to 70, today was the perfect day to start my outdoor tennis season. Well, maybe not perfect, since the sun was right in my eyes every other service game and the incessant wind kept blowing the ball into bizarre trajectories I'd need a physics degree to figure out. Yep, there's nothing like stepping onto an outdoor court after three or four months of play in the perfect atmosphere of indoor courts.

Of course, when November rolls around again I'll be bitching about how indoor courts never have enough room behind the baseline for me to retrieve big bouncing moonballs and such.

So, today was not an auspicious debut for me -- I lost 7-5, 6-1 to Lucas -- the guy I'm supposed to beat by September. Neither was it a pretty match in either way, especially when he went all Martina Chang and started underhanding serves. Or when I would set up to hit an easy forehand only to whiff it.

The upside is that's it's easy to get a court during the first week of March. When I started squeezing in weekday lunch matches late last summer, I expected grabbing a court would be simple since, you know, real people worked and stuff. Not actually the case, as it turns out. But for a few weeks, at least, when the weather provides a spring preview, I can get some much needed practice in.

And judging by my junky serve, I need it.