Sometimes the most memorable part of a tournament is what happens after it is over.
After my golden set victory I played in the semifinals against Timothy Brady, a local pro who had always done well in this local event. He won 6-1, 6-3, but then the real excitement began for me.
My golden set seemed like ancient history as I thought about my potential next match and getting back home.
Being a points and rankings chaser, there were third place points to think about.
Sometimes those points are free and easy because players want to get home and don’t stick around for third place matches. I always would clear my schedule and plan to stay longer than the next guy just to get whatever points could be had.
But my job had gone from bad to worse. People were let go every few weeks as if it was some surreal reality show. And I wanted to stay as long as possible monitoring Gainesville and hoping something in another department would open up. My days off had changed to being Friday and Saturday. And even though my immediate boss said I should take off that Sunday I knew there was nobody to take my place. And if I did not come into work it would look to upper management like I wasn‘t dedicated to my new role. So I had to get back to my job by Sunday afternoon no matter what.
So I sat and waited for the other semifinal to end. My hope was the guy who lost would say he was not coming back for the third place match. Then I would get the default and be able to take off for home.
As the match dragged on, all I could think of was the 12-hour drive home. I did the math. If it ends by 1 p.m., I could be home by 1 a.m. Finally, it ended at 1:15. Andrew Thurstone, the loser, came off the court. The tournament director asked him about the third place match and said it was scheduled for Sunday, when I knew I couldn’t play. He said it was a problem. My heart beat a little faster—Third place points in a Category II National!
Then he turned to me and asked, “Can we play today instead?”
I stumbled as if I was trying to slide on a clay court line in high school.
If I say no, I risk a default if he is willing to stay on Sunday. If I say yes at least I have a fighting chance. But if I say no I still might get a default. I would never know what would have happened. And the whole point of playing nationals this year was to prove that my top 15 finish nationally in the 40s was legitimate.
So I said yes.
But then he said he still had a doubles match to play before he could play our match. And he needed to get some food before that. Oh Lord. I was living a nightmare. It would at least be 4 p.m. before I got on the court.
I went to try to find a place in the club to rest. I knew I would have to drive all night and figured I needed to get some sleep.
I found a couch in the lounge, took off my shoes and started to doze off until….
A little kid and his mother came in. He was whining about wanting a soda. His mother did not have any change. The whining continued. Finally the woman found change. Small change. She slowly fed the machine with each coin clanking more that the last. Finally, they had the soda, finally the whining stopped and finally they left.
I started to doze again until…
Three girls whose ages may have been anywhere from 10 to 12 came in. They weren’t screaming. They were screeching. It was like a personal attack on my nerves. But if I were to say anything I would be the bad guy so I said nothing.
But my blood was boiling. All I could think was if you don’t know how to act in a public place you shouldn’t be allowed in a public place. The same thing goes through my mind when being forced to be around CERTAIN children and some adults on airplanes.
So I went outside. I sat down on the grass. But I don’t think I have ever fallen asleep outdoors. Ever. City boy.
Growing up in Queens I had never been camping.
So resting was out of the question. I went out to look at the doubles match and root for its completion.
I was the ultimate front runner, rooting for whoever was ahead,. Finally the match ended at 4:45. Oh Lord.
There was another thing. I had checked out my possible opponents in the computer the night before and Thurstone had better results against common opponents. I probably should have taken my chances and said I could only play Sunday.
So I was not only angry at not being able to rest, but feeling like an idiot for my decision.
It is OK to go on the court hating yourself. And it is OK to go on the court hating the world. But doing both at the same time takes a special talent (McEnroe) to still be successful. And I am not what you would call a special talent.
Logic would dictate that the situation was actually set up pretty well for me. Here I am a grind-it-out player going against a guy who has had a lot of tennis in him.
But logic had left me when those kids wouldn’t let me sleep. Thurstone hit the ball hard, and I was loving banging it out with him. Big shots, lots of attempted winners. He made most of his. I missed most of mine. I lost the first set 6-2.
It was 2-1 in the second set when he motioned he had a problem to his brother/doubles partner. It was a blister. He handed him some tape through the fence. I knew what I had to do, just keep the points going.
That lasted a game. Then I was back to my insanity of hitting hard, going for winners. I lost 6-2, 6-1.
“Thanks for playing me today,” he said. “I really appreciate it,.”
It was almost 7 p.m. I went straight to my car to get on the road. I had already stashed food and drinks for the ride.
I got through the local Indianapolis roads just fine but when I reached the main highway it was a dead stop. I called my wife. I was almost in tears.
You should stop and the stay the night in some hotel along the road she told me. I would love to if I could I told her. But I would only have a couple of hours to sleep and getting up would not have been possible. So I drove, when I finally started to move again.
It wasn’t that bad until I reached Pennsylvania and the skies opened up. End of the world thunderstorms on unfamiliar winding roads. I could hardly see. And I was starting to get tired. Very tired. The only radio station I could pick up was an all-night sports talk station railing about the Pirates.
The visibility got worse as the downpour turned to drizzle and fog. Oh lord, the only thing to do was try to follow a car in front of you because otherwise you were driving into a dark grey hole.
I may die for my job after all.
I made it through Pennsylvania.
In New Jersey, I started getting foggy. I had not had caffeine in over 10 years, but I took out the first can of Red Bull. I was desperate. My eyes were closing. I made it another half hour.
Then I started having what could be best described as hallucinations. I kept seeing animals running across the road that weren’t there. And I had to go to the bathroom.
I tried to pull off and find a bathroom. I found a deli. But the door to the bathroom was locked. I got in the car again, and looked for another store. When I found it the relief seemed to wake me up just enough to get to NYC. My wife talked to me on the phone long enough to get me home. It may have been the only time talking on a cell phone while driving enhanced safety.
I took a short nap and was at work three hours later.