It was the first time I was ever defaulted from a match. All the injuries and obstacles I had overcome without defaulting and this sport had finally pushed me over the edge.
But I knew it was not just the sport. It was the uncertainty and stress of work and the crushing desperation of feeling I was letting my wife down at every turn.
But I had to put it out of my mind and prepare for Utah. My preparations were not ideal.
It was looking like the Times was serious about keeping me as one of two people in New York to supervise the editors in Gainesville, deal with clients and generally protect the brand.
But replacing 28 people was proving to be harder than anyone had thought. And being one of the few survivors had taken a heavy toll on me emotionally.
And it was looking like I would have to make a trip down to Gainesville. And it would be the week before I was to play in Salt Lake.
I had my regular practice partners set up at home, but I would have to line up some folks in Gainesville, just so I would have some practice and could preserve my fitness for the Utah altitude.
After my week in Gainesville, and my last practice session, which consisted of me hitting against a guy I saw at a local park, I flew home.
I did laundry, re-packed, and the next morning I was on my way to Utah.
It was snowing.
The tournament, which is usually in Park City, was in Salt Lake. But it was in the perfect location. The club was a mile’s walk from a hotel, which was next to a mall with a Whole Foods and lots of other stores. No need for a car. No need to eat out. Just work and tennis.
My first morning I ventured to the club. I was a couple of days early, which is one of the secrets of getting used to the altitude.
I felt it on the walk over, but once I started hitting I was fine. Incredibly fast courts. They use the pressurized balls to counter the altitude but they still fly. Topspin becomes even more important to keep the ball in the court.
I hit against one of the local pros. Then another. Played a practice set. I felt great. I did not draw a seed in the first round so I was hopeful I could last at least a round.
The next day some of the tournament players were in. I hit with them.
I felt so good that I was able to fool around with my latest toy, the Nadal-like follow through on the forehand.
It had become my obsession to learn, with the follow-through over the head. I was like a kid again, learning something Johnny had urged me to try.
I was holding my own against national level players and even able to practice a new shot on very fast courts. This is when tennis is fun I thought.
Then I heard a crack and could not see three feet in front of me.
My follow through had not gone over my head but into it and the racket had hit my glasses. The frames were on the ground mangled. One of the lenses had rolled ten feet away. It was in one piece, but I panicked and my heart sank simultaneously. I did not have a backup pair. My tournament was probably over before it started.
My only hope was to try to get them repaired. But I was in a strange city, Salt Lake, on a Sunday in one of the most religious cities in the country. Oh, and also I could not see.
I gathered up my stuff. My match was in 24 hours. And my only hope was to try to find some way to get them repaired.
I remembered seeing an eyeglass place in the mall near the hotel, when I could see.
I ran out of the club and started walking toward the hotel. It was good that I did not have a car because I could not have driven. I really could not see more than three feet in front of me.
I passed Troy Goers on the way out. I did not recognize him.
“What’s going on?” Troy asked as I walked past him. He had never seen me without glasses.
I told him what happened and how I thought I was going to have to default before the tournament even started. He wished me luck. I told him that there was a guy inside the bubble who needed a practice partner.
I followed the path I knew back to the hotel. It was OK until I hit a major intersection. I needed to ask an old woman to help me cross the street.
Once I was in the mall area I had to ask another woman where the eyeglass place was. It was an odd conversation.
“Miss, can you tell me where the eyeglass place is here? I know I saw one the other day.”
“It is right over here, the big white building right in front of you.”
Thanks.
Was this fate’s punishment for defaulting a match I didn’t need to?
I was amazed that it was open. But I still couldn’t say I was hopeful. I was holding a lens in one hand and a mangled frame in the other.
I made my way to the counter.
I held out what was left in my glasses.
“I am in town for a tennis tournament,” I said, throwing my rackets on the floor and still wearing my bandana. “I broke my glasses and I don’t have a back-up pair. Is there anything you could do for me?”
A friendly young woman took the glasses and went into a back room.
“She came out about a minute later and handed me my glasses. They were good as new except for a slight scratch on one lens.
“Wow, you fixed them,” I shouted.
I took out my wallet. I was expecting and willing pay hundreds of dollars. “Oh, we do it all the time, no charge.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you so much. You just saved me a 2,000-mile trip.”
I stepped outside and called my wife. At that point I realized I was shaking.
I had overcome my first challenge before playing my first match.
The draw was only 32 players so one win would put me in the final 16 and get me 200 points. That would almost assure me a top 20 finish in the rankings.
I arrived early for my first match. The club’s heating had broken down and it was freezing, but I remained calm. If I could handle not seeing I could handle anything.
My opponent was a local who I did not know much about. Neither did anyone else.
But he hit the heck out the ball in the warm up. His backhand was weaker than his forehand, but he hit everything hard and had a very good serve.
I would just try to get the ball back at the beginning.
We split the first two games. But a pattern was developing. He was spraying his backhand long.
When I would go to his forehand he would hit one in the court but a second one very long.
The first set was over in 15 minutes, 6-1.
By the end of the set I was hardly hitting any balls because his errors were ending the points so quickly. I held for the first game of the second set. But then he got smarter. He pulled back and held the next game. Then I started making errors. So I smartened up and played defensively. And so did he.
It was turning into a 12-and-under girls’ match on slow red clay. Instead it was a 45-and-over men’s match in the fastest conditions possible.
But he was getting tired. Or bored. Or something, because he was coming to net and I had a chance to force him to volley up and then I hit passing shots to take a 5-3 lead. But he was serving well by now.
We went to deuce. He sprayed a forehand long to give me match point. The next point was cat and mouse until he hit a net chord. I sprang up to get it.
He drove a backhand down the line. I saw him go to cover the open court and off my wrong foot punched a volley behind him. He could not recover. It was my only volley of the match and it gave me the win.
I was in the final 16 of a National.
My next opponent was Mario Tabares, the number 2 seed.
Tabares had won the National Grass Courts, defeating Rick Leach along the way. Yes, Rick Leach, the multi Grand Slam winning doubles player.
I was looking forward to the match because I had nothing to lose.
I was practically assured of finishing in the top 25 and maybe even top 20.
This was going to be fun, playing someone at the game’s highest level.
The warm up was great. He hits a very clean ball. I thought to myself “I can play with this guy.”
I was right. The first game went to seven deuces. He won it.
And he broke me after two deuces to win the next. But I broke him to make it 2-1.
And even though I played well I did not win another game. My goal was to be out there at least an hour and I did not achieve that.
But I did break the serve of a top guy. He would go on to beat Leach in the final to win the tournament.