Rafael Nadal's wasting his talents

Rafael Nadal is wasting his talents. I know that he's the best tennis player in the world and that's an incredible accomplishment. However, this most probably will be a fleeting proposition. Placing yourself on a pedestal by being the number one can have it's setbacks. He's setting himself up to be knocked down. Inevitably, he will be replaced, just like Roger Federer was. I suggest a modeling career. I think he's wasting his looks by playing tennis. Why not just pose, maybe do a little acting, smile a lot. He could strut through life as a sex symbol. I'm sure it's equally as profitable with a bit more longevity if you do it right. Maybe I'm shallow and not recognizing the glory of being number one. Maybe the competitive fire just doesn't burn beneath me. But Rafael Nadal's a good looking guy, he could cash in and take it easy, let a camera do all the work. 

Grand Central Tennis

One of New York City's most unique tennis clubs will be removed. The two court tennis club located in Grand Central Terminal will be gutted and turned into a rest area for railroad employees. Come on, how could this happen? Can't the railroad employees rest in another part of Grand Central? Can't we have some foresight and perspective? Grand Central just won't be the same without a tennis club. Maybe instead of a rest area for railroad employees, these same employees can hit a few tennis balls before going back to work. Why would anyone rest when they could play tennis?

Stuffy Tennis

Sutton Place Tennis Club feels stuffy sometimes. The red clay courts are immaculate, with a posh, country club feel, catering towards the upper east side elite. Apparently, there's an agreement with the New York Parks Department, which owns the land. Sutton Place Tennis Club doesn't feel like a public place, or a public park. These fine digs come with a price. The public can play for an even larger price. Some agreement made with the parks department. I don't enjoy tennis for the elite. I don't think that it has a place, especially when the parks department owns the real estate. 

Smoking Illegally

Smoke rolls around the tennis court, like there's some sort of fire. The court smells like a skunk, like freshly taken road kill. My opponent smokes a joint, offering me a toke. I pass, afraid of the effect that it may have on my game. I'm also more than a little concerned about the illegality of smoking marijuana. I don't want to be arrested on the tennis court. I'm not even smoking and I'm still paranoid. Getting stoned before playing tennis just doesn't work for me. Sure, maybe when I was younger. A few years back, I smoked before doing just about everything. My opponent doesn't have these problems. He doesn't seem to have any problems at all, except being unable to open his glassy, red eyes.

A Simple, Perfect Moment

I'm sitting by the tennis courts in Central Park having a cup of coffee. I have roughly an hour before my match, so there's not any hurry. I'm taking it all in, breathing more than just the aroma of my coffee. Tennis is everywhere. A vast expanse of tennis court lay in front of me. Players hitting tennis balls and the constant "thwap" made by their racket rings in my ears. The heat of the coffee nips my tongue. The buzz of the caffeine rolls through my veins. I am in my environment. I am home. Tennis is everywhere. I'm just having a cup of coffee and breathing it all in. Such a simple moment, but life seems so perfect. 

Parents and Kids

I like to see parents playing tennis with their children. What a great thing to do. I see a father explaining the game. A responsible parent spends time with his child. A good Dad takes his kid to the park for a session of hitting that little, yellow tennis ball. The child learns the game. More importantly, there's a bond developed between a father and his kid. Strong bonds last forever. Hopefully, fathers and their children will always venture toward the park. Hopefully, they will spend an entire lifetime hitting that little, yellow tennis ball with each other. 

Russian women

What's in the water? That's what I keep asking. These Russian women on the pro tour play tennis like animals, grunting and screaming and hitting the ball hard. I mean, they hit the tennis ball very hard. I can't seem to tell them apart anymore, either. There's so many of them and they all play unbelievable tennis. Did I mention how hard they hit the ball? I wonder what would happen if I grunted and screamed in Central Park like some of these Russian women? I would definitely cause a commotion. Who knows, I may even be hired for a porno movie. This is New York City after all. 

Rules are Rules

In Central Park, don't mess with the guys who work in the tennis shack. Rules are rules and not meant to be broken. This is a high volume place. Don't expect the rules to be bent, or a blind eye taken. This is a tough job keeping unruly tennis folk in-line and organized. There's a time and a place for everything. In Central Park, you have your time and place and you better not be late. Otherwise, you lose your court. And your partner better not be late, either. Otherwise, you'll find yourself on the "no-show list." Certainly a dicey adventure, at least if you want a court to play tennis. Rules are rules and not meant to be broken. These guys where badges like the police, I kid you not. 

I'm Not Rafael Nadal

Rafael Nadal hits like a God. That forehand smacks the tennis ball harder than anyone I've ever seen. He snaps the head of the racket so fast that tennis ball doesn't have a chance. Most of his opponents don't either. My forehand's not quite the same. The word "erratic" comes to mind. Sure, I can hit the ball hard, at least hard by public court standards. I'm no Rafael Nadal though, not even close. Especially when my opponent's peeling the tennis ball off of the back fence. Plucking the ball from a metal divot that I made. There's nothing worse than hitting the fence on the fly. Except of course, hitting the ball over the fence on the fly. I'm certainly no Rafael Nadal.

Rained Out

My tennis match was rained out this morning. The drizzle started early. In fact, I felt moisture while still lying in bed. A sixth sense steers me towards a good tennis match. Today, my senses left me lying in bed. I knew I was rained out. Unable to hit that little, yellow ball. Even if it only rains early and the sun comes out, the tennis courts are done for the day. My body craves some sort of workout. I need to get the blood flowing. Instead, I lounge around my living room watching tennis on television. Not quite the same thing at all. I can't wait for tomorrow. 

My Choices are Limited

What do I do? I want to play some tennis today. Unfortunately, it's just too cold to play outside. I'm trapped inside. Either on my way to play in a bubble, or sitting in my living room holding a tennis racket. My choices are limited. Sitting in my living room's cheaper than playing in a bubble, but it's not very much fun. Why does playing tennis inside, here in New York City, have to be so expensive? I sit on my couch holding my racket. I'm saving a few bucks, but I'm not really enjoying myself. I wish it would get warm so I could play tennis outdoors. 

Playing in a Monastery

I’m playing tennis in a monastery today. There’s a monastery in Chelsea with a tennis court on the grounds. I don’t know what to expect, really. I guess I better make the right calls. No cheating, that’s for sure. I figure God might be looking a little closer today. Keeping an eye on my calls. Sometimes, I have to remember that the line is “in.” Not today though. Today I’m on the up and up. I’m playing in a monastery for Christ’s sake, literally. I wonder what this will do for my game. Am I going to play better, maybe find a little divine inspiration? Maybe I’ll play worse? Some penance for those line calls reflecting a ball not on the line. I’m hoping for the former, a little divine inspiration would be nice. I’ll say my prayers.