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.

Bad Bounces

Bad bounces happen in the game of tennis. Especially on clay, especially on public tennis courts, and on a very consistent bases in Central Park. The tennis ball sometimes hits a previous mark on the court and bounces funny, or often doesn't bounce at all. These situations are kind of a pain in the ass, really. What can you do? I guess you could get pissed off, if you were so inclined. But the game moves forward and what goes around comes around. Bad bounces are just part of the game. 

That Inner Child

"He was trying to hit me with the ball!" The guy barks, in a kind of raspy lisp. Whimpering with fret, like a baby without his nipple. "He was trying to hit me with the ball," the guy barks again. I listen with amusement, trying not to laugh. "He was trying to it me on purpose," the guy barks yet again. He squints, and turns red in the cheeks. Fired up with anger, caught in the middle of a temper tantrum. "He tried to hit me with the tennis ball and I don't want to play anymore." He whimpers, almost crying now. Feeling violated and hurt. I start laughing out loud. I can't help myself. Sometimes, tennis brings out that inner child in people, and not in a good way.

An Hours Not Enough

Having only an hour to play tennis really sucks. It's one of the big problems of playing a  match in Central Park. Unless you clean your opponent's clock, or get cleaned, an hours not enough. There's often an inconclusive residue hovering over a match's merit. Many times, having a draw really feels like a loss. But then again, does it really always matter? I don't think so. The best thing you can do is what I do. Find the off hours, where landing a court for more than an hour has some decent odds. Sure, it's Central Park, so you better be crafty, and lucky. But if you play things correctly, you may just get to finish your match. But then again, if you play things correctly, an hour should be enough time to finish that match. 

Conditioning

Conditioning plays a large part towards building a tennis game. I have to be in shape. In fact, this might be the main point of playing tennis for most. The older that I become, the more that I realize my body ages, especially on the tennis court. Those aches and pains creep into my life with a little more throb. Sometimes, I just hurt. I guess that I should work on conditioning outside of just playing tennis. Somehow, I never get around to this. It seems like I only have time to hit that little, yellow tennis ball. 

I Pick My Moments

I'm cagey. I pick my moments on the tennis court. Match points, I call them, and not at the end of a tennis match. These are points that turn the tide, points that swing momentum. These are also the points where the game changes. Where the game disintegrates into a loss. I'm cagey. I pick my moments. I realize which points dictate a tennis match. 

True Bliss

The air remains still, the skies are beautiful, and the sun spreads upon the horizon. Where's the dark skies and gray clouds spitting rain and mess like they predicted? The weather's perfect. I can already feel myself hitting that little, yellow tennis ball with a nice sweat and not a care in the world. I see my opponent stretching for that perfect shot that I just hit. I again look into the expansive blue. Today remains a perfect day for playing tennis. I head towards Central Park for nothing but true bliss. That is, until I realize that I'm going to have to wait all day for a tennis court. 

Doubles and Real Estate

There's value in doubles. The game of doubles creates extra real estate. Two parcels of land run down both sides of the tennis court. In singles, these parcels represent nothing more than an easement. Two strips of land with lines and borders, but without any value. But in doubles, the alley creates more space. The alley becomes part of the game. An extra player creates extra real estate in the game of tennis. In New York City, real estate has value. Doubles is simply worth more than singles, because of the real estate. 

Tennis and Rain

I'm restless this morning. My tennis match starts this afternoon, but I'm ready to play now. I move around my apartment in anticipation. I pull out my tennis racket and start practicing in my living room. I hit fictitious forehands and backhands without the ball, careful not to break anything. I swing my racket, careful not to hit a lamp, or a picture, or anything of value. Outside my living room, dark clouds begin to form. I practice forehands and backhands because there's not room to practice my serve. Outside, the rain begins to fall. A dark sky comes to fruition. I'm restless and ready. Rain begins to fall and tennis in my living room becomes all the tennis that I get today. 

Even in the Winter

The Central Park tennis courts remain mostly barren in the winter. The tennis nets are removed and empty courts just sit. The tides of cold and nasty weather pass through New York City. The crown jewel of the public courts takes a break. The vast majority of tennis players are forced inside. The cold compels them. Only four tennis courts are kept open in Central Park. Four of twenty-eight are kept with their nets, ready for winter play, no matter how cold. A small group of players seem to always play these four tennis courts. A tough group, without the usual hang-ups regarding nasty weather. Even in the winter, tennis players converge, and tennis continues in Central Park. 

A Bruised Ego

I lose the first set pretty quick and feel a little pissed. My ego doesn't bruise real well. Between changeovers, I ask my opponent how much money he has on him. "Eighty bucks," he says. "You're on," I tell him. Despite having already dropped the opening set, I'm ready to raise the stakes. My game has yet to show, and I'm not sure if it ever will. But with a little money on the line, I have to play better, right? Time to bring my real game and take this chump. And then I continue to miss here, and miss there, and play like crap. I quickly lose the second set and the match. I lose eighty bucks. My real game never comes close to showing. My bruised ego is now poor. 

The White Tape

The ball stops dead at the top of the net and then trickles onto the other side. Sorry, I say to my opponent, out of instinct. Sorry for what, I'm not sure. I'll take this point. The tennis ball did fall on his side of the court. I'll take this point all day long. I serve the ball and my opponent wallops his return with an aggressive stroke. The white tape catches the ball with that distinct crack. The little, yellow tennis ball then trickles over onto my side. I shake my head in disgust. What a cheap shot.

Over the fence

The tennis ball sailed into the sky. Rising higher and higher into the expansive blue. I prepare myself. I squint into the sun, getting ready. The tennis ball begins to fall towards me. It's coming my way. I prepare myself. I pull my racket back and move my feet into place. The balls coming close now. I decide not to let it land. I decide to take it early and put this point away. I shuffle my feet and squint into the sun. I move the racket forward with a snap. The ball ricochets off my strings. It explodes off my racket. The tennis ball sails through the air. Back, back, back and over the fence and into the park, never to be seen again.

The Perfect Game

I opened an empty locker in the Central Park locker room and a Genie appeared. He said to me, I've been trapped in this locker for a thousand years. For releasing me, I will grant you any wish. I looked at the Genie, thinking of the smells he must have experienced in a thousand years trapped in this locker room. I didn't hesitate. Genie, I want the perfect tennis game. I'm looking for something more than just a perfect backhand. I want a perfect forehand too. And then, I want a huge serve. I need to volley like a king. I want the perfect drop shot, for those special times. My service return had better be a monster, and off of both sides. The Genie looked at me and smiled. He granted me my wish. My name is Roger Federer.

I Hate this Game

I can't hit the ball in. The tennis court has some sort of force field, which repels the tennis ball. And now, the tennis net is getting in the way. My feet don't work and my mind... Well, I don't know where my mind is. I should have stayed home. I can't do anything right. I'm getting killed, and I'm not having fun. I hate this game. 

Central Park Tennis Stringers

I like to hit the tennis ball fairly hard and very frequently. Subsequently, I break tennis strings on a regular basis. The Racket Shop in Central Park hosts a motley crew of tennis stringers, who are each very unique and highly qualified. They string tennis rackets with visionary brilliance. They take the science of tennis stringing to another level. They lecture about hybrids and nylons and whatnot. They spew technical mumbo jumbo that just becomes too much for even my limited capacity. Tennis stringing needs to be kept in a small fraternity of experts, kind of like the staff in the Central Park Racket Shop. They hover over their tennis racket stringers, working diligently, making sure every racket finds it's way back onto the court. Always busy, always willing to break into a longwinded diatribe about the latest string technology. These are dedicated professionals, and technicians. There to back tennis players like me, and help me play better tennis. 

Keep Your Balls Off of My Court

I'm out playing tennis in Central Park and the guy playing next to me keeps hitting his tennis ball into my court. Now, I'm easy going. Well, sort of easy going. I mean lets have some common decency here. Keep your tennis ball off my court. Okay, I know sometimes the ball just happens to trickle over. I'm okay with that. But when you keep hitting your ball into my court, time and time again, it gets kind of old. I'm easy going. Well, sort of easy going. Just keep your tennis ball off of my court, if you can. That's all I ask. Try and play better, please. 

Doubles and Human Backboards

Sometimes, I play doubles just for fun. I really prefer to play singles. But every once in a while, on a lark, I play doubles. I found some retired teachers that play a mean game of doubles. Talk about maximizing athletic potential. These guys are like human backboards. Nothing pretty, but the ball always stays in play. I can never put the ball away. Every shot I make finds it's way back. Eventually, I start forcing play. Basic mental management entails never becoming impatient. But I am impatient, sometimes. And sometimes, I invite errors. These retired teachers maximize their pensions and early retirement playing on the public courts. They put themselves out to pasture in Central Park, focusing on tennis, of course. 

Slow Starter

I'm a notoriously slow starter on the tennis court. Sometimes, I don't even feel my limbs until I'm down a set. Even with an extensive warm-up period, I still struggle out of the gate. Sometimes, I start so slow, that by the time I'm ready to play, it's time for me to go. My game cranks like an old car. Starting very slowly at first, and giving off a lot of emissions. With a nice gurgle of burning crude, and several spouts of bad air, I'm ready to play. All of this represents many lost games and much mental anguish. I don't know why I'm a notoriously slow starter on the tennis court. 

Love Forty and the Comeback

I'm down love forty to this young kid who has some real game. I reach for my towel and wipe off my sweat. Perspiration slides down my face, from thick humidity of a hot afternoon. I wipe myself off and get back to being down love forty. I bounce the ball and serve, smacking the line for a service ace. I again wipe my face with a towel. I bounce the ball and serve again, smacking the line, for yet another service ace. I wipe down again, feeling like I'm on a roll. I bounce the tennis ball and serve. I'm now gaining real confidence. The ball lands in and it's not a service ace, but the dead duck my opponent hits back, I easily put away. Now it's forty all. I have changed the momentum. I am back in the game. The young kid has let me off of the ropes. He lets me breath. I bounce the tennis ball and serve. The young kid rockets a forehand well out of my reach. I wipe down with the towel, one more time. I bounce the tennis ball and serve. I have a premonition, I visualize it before it happens. And then I double fault and lose the game.

What a Jerk

The tennis ball lands in the net. A husband screams, "You tramp." His loud blast ripples around the very, public tennis courts. I can't believe that I'm hearing this, I mean this is supposed to be a gentleman's game. Here this man yells at his wife for missing a forehand. Like she did this on purpose. He's grumbling around the court, somehow having missed the meaning of tennis on a beautiful afternoon. What kind of idiot spews abuse towards his wife over a missed forehand? How can a man treat his wife this way? Play resumes, and the husband and wife grumble around the court. He holds that sourpuss frown of frustration, not even looking at his wife. She kicks the tennis court, chastising herself for missing such an easy shot, but mostly for marrying such a jerk. 

Business on the Tennis Court

My blackberry's rolling like a roller coaster. There's ten minutes before my court's available. I'm trying to sell a painting before my match. I send a series of emails containing a counter offer and terms of the sale. I'm picking up shipping, of course. I think that I've bent sufficiently to "close the deal." I know the client loves this painting. I know his wife simply has to have it on their wall. And I know they can afford this painting on their wall. There's nothing better than getting the deal done courtside. I am now able to fully concentrate on my tennis match. I have several other business deals to finalize after my tennis match. Despite the sluggish economy, I still have business too accommodate. I have much to finalize before my afternoon match. 

Big Money Game

I'm playing doubles in the North Bronx. These gruff, older woman are playing on the court next door. Only a nylon screen seperates our courts. I think to myself that this may not be enough, these woman look real tough, the kind of tough where you mind your P's and Q's. The play next door seems real intense, also. I don't see any humor or emotion or fun, for that matter. My partner comes to me between points, having noticed what I've been noticing. "Tough crowd, don't you think?" He says to me, motioning towards the tough, old broads. "I think it's a big money game," I say. With the level of seriousness that I'm seeing, I think these women are playing tennis for a lot of money.

Tennis Court Traffic Jam

Some days, I sit in Central Park for hours waiting for a court. Many times, the wait for a court parallels whichever tournament is being played by the ATP tour. Obviously, the big tournaments relate directly to a nice spike in tennis players looking for a match. The French, Wimbledon, and the US. Open tournaments all translate to an abundance of players and a real shortage of court availability here in New York City. The US. Open, which is actually held here in New York, creates complete chaos. Central Park becomes like a tennis court traffic jam, you can sit all day long waiting. Personally, I create my schedule based upon being able to walk into a match fairly easily. But some days, I just get stuck. 

Timing and the No-Show List

I play it cool. I know that I'm three down on the "no-show list." That second rate list for the banished, those not worthy of a court in Central Park. Actually, it's all about timing, all of it. You either have it, or you don't. I know that I'm three down on the "no-show list." I just play it cool, my chances are good. And then I hear my name over the loud speaker. I head towards the tennis shack, having secured what I want. It's all about timing, all of it, you either have it, or you don't. 

A Bad Call Rectified

I took a deep breath and hesitated for a second. I knew the serve had landed in, he knew the serve had landed in, the big spot in the clay makes it pretty obvious. I take another deep breath. I shake-off the bad call. What else can I do, I mean the guy should change his call, but he's not. I bounce the ball several times, concentrating. I toss the ball into the air, bend my knees, step and catch the ball in full extension. That distinct "thwap" sounds, as my racket makes contact. The ball sails towards the far right corner of the service box and lands in, he hits back an off-balance forehand return, a dead duck sailing through the air. I step in, one, two, three steps and stop. I keep my balance and lay the racket out, stepping into a forehand volley. I strike the ball crisp, and there's that distinct "thwap" sound again. He can't reach my shot, he doesn't deserve to reach my shot. His bad call has been rectified. 

Sometimes, It Just all Goes

Fluid grace of a beautiful tennis game transforms into a bumbling, lethargic, void between the ears. Sometimes, the wheels just come off, and there's nothing that can be done. I trip and stumble, I don't think about what I am doing. What am I doing? I'm losing of course, and not slowly. Sometimes, I can't even feel my hands, which are holding a racket, which feels like an iron skillet. My tennis game systematically shuts down. Dismantled upon a tripped domino falling upon another domino, and so on. Bumbling and stumbling around the court, without any direction, trying to become grounded, but unable to grasp even the most basic concepts of tennis. Sometimes, it just all goes.

Riding to Roosevelt Island

I enjoy riding the tram out to Roosevelt Island. When I first moved to New York City, the transition was almost unbearable. I had lived many years, where I rode a Gondola to the top of a mountain nearly every winter morning. I needed this ride out to Roosevelt Island. The tram would rise into the sky, above the East River and all of Manhattan and Queens. Looking all the way down towards Brooklyn. The tram would then lowers itself, dropping me directly at the front door of the tennis club. Helping to ease my rough transition, reminding me of my most familiar. 

Make Do with What You've Got

I was watching a match out in Brooklyn not too long ago. There were some young kids playing doubles on a makeshift court in Williamsburg. I think that the court was more parking lot than a legitimate tennis court. It did have a net and some lines, although there were so many weeds growing out of cracks and crevices, that trying to figure what was in and out didn't seem so easy. But the young kids didn't seem to mind. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, a good day for some doubles. I guess the precedent says that you, "make do with what you've got." 

Arrests on the Tennis Court

The Police came out onto the tennis courts last week. Apparently, there was an altercation between players. Apparently, one of the players became agitated and threw his racket into the net. Throwing a racket is never good. In this case the player heaved a racket, missing the net and nailing his opponent on the other side. Apparently, this didn't go over so well. Luckily, the Police were able to resolve the situation. Both players were arrested. Nothing ever good becomes of throwing a tennis racket. File this away somewhere. 

Move the Short Ball to the Outside

I like to move the short ball to the outside. I like to take a little pace off of my stroke, rolling a little topspin on the ball. I move in behind the short ball, cutting off the angles of return, while keeping my opponent out of position. I apply pressure and control the point. It's going to take a low percentage, super-shot to beat me. I play the short ball to the outside and put myself in a position to win. 

The Tennis Injury

Sometimes, tennis can hurt. I wrenched my ankle last year. I had to retire early from my match, also. Something a serious tennis player never likes to do. I was unable to play for nearly a month. I shuffled around my apartment limping and stumbling. Wanting to get back out there, wanting to play, knowing my body just needed a break. My mind kept right on playing, never losing that consistent familiarity of roaming a tennis court. I played points in my head, and watched tennis on television. I drove myself crazy wanting to get back out there.

The Harlem Tennis Center

Aurthur Ashe made the Harlem Tennis Center famous. The world's first legitimate African-American tennis star taught clinics here. It's a gritty, no frills tennis club with tight, remodeled courts that play well. The old timers talk of distant days when conditions were not so good. Tennis used to have a rough element at the Harlem Tennis Center. Today, This tennis club has become one of the most economical places to play tennis in the city, a true gem for tennis players looking for indoor play. Tennis in Harlem has come a long way.

Changing the Momentum

 I stop on the tennis court. I just take a break. When things aren't going so well, I put on the brakes, taking a look around. I work on altering momentum and challenging the pace. I make my opponent start thinking about things, letting those demons venture into the head. Will momentum slip? I stop on the tennis court, my tennis match caught in traffic. The momentum will change, hopefully.

Sweeping the Courts

The work crew in Central Park drag their tennis courts in the middle of the day. The manmade clay becomes rough and scraggly after a big morning of play. They sweep twelve courts at noon, and then the second twelve at one. A parks employee drives a golf court in circles, kind of like the Zamboni driver at the ice rink. Only in Central Park, they drive a golf cart around twelve tennis courts, pulling a large, metal screen behind. Sweeping the tennis courts back into shape. Now an aggressive player will move onto the courts directly after this sweeping, first come, first serve, literally. An aggressive tennis player usually achieves about fifteen minutes of extra play. 

The Little Pink Flower

Sometimes, when I play tennis with my lover, she puts on her flower. It's just a small, little pink flower with a pin on the backside. She attaches it to her tennis outfit. She wears this small, pink flower just for me. She's so adorable. That small, pink flower bounces around the tennis court with my lover attached. My eyes follow, while I struggle with actually playing tennis. I love that little pink flower.

Mentally Cooked on the Tennis Court

Steam rises on the tennis court. I'm locked in a real tight match with Bob. One of those matches where I seem to win the majority of the points, just not the important ones. Subsequently, I'm losing. The heat is definitely getting to me, well at least the humidity anyway. Between points I wipe my brow with a towel, removing sweat from my soaking forehead. The sweat continues to come and begins to run into my eyes burning and blurring my vision. I put on a headband, which supposedly absorbs the sweat, but not in my case. In fact, I don't think the headband absorbs anything. It just sticks on my forehead, feeling like a soggy hot dog bun would probably feel. I become annoyed, the heat is really getting to me now. I feel things slipping. I'm unable to overcome the elements. I deserve to lose. 

Control

I see the angles. The rectangle court flows into my eyes with confidence. I see where the ball needs to be. I move my feet, prepare, and smack the little, yellow ball. I take a little bit off, not hitting the ball as hard as usual, creating more control in my shot. Control remains very important in the game of tennis. Control mirrors composure, which often represents success.  

Some Days

I get beat all the time. Some days, it doesn't matter who I'm facing on the tennis court. Some days, the only foe that I have on the tennis court is myself. These are the worst days. There's nothing worse than consistently tripping over myself, wallowing in my mistakes. Some days, I just don't move well to the ball. Much of tennis is really preparation. Some days, my limbs and feet just don't work. Some days, I run around the tennis court like a "big blob of flesh." I'm unable to command even my most basic instincts.

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Tennis Off Balance

Sometimes, it's best not to reveal yourself too quickly on the tennis court. Sometimes, it's best to be a little bit mysterious. Sometimes, it's best to stay back and rally, rather than attack. Keeping an opponent off balance can turn the tables in your favor. A good strategy can be masked in your game, your pace, and how you address the ball. Give your opponent a different side of your competitive composition. Lure your opponent into a false sense of understanding. When they think they have you figured, switch your game and present a new strategy. If an opponent doesn't feel comfortable on the tennis court, chances are they are not going to play well. 

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The New York Tennis Club

Sometimes, I head to the far north Bronx to play doubles. The New York Tennis Club remains the oldest tennis club in New York City. Originally, the club was located in Manhattan. Now relocated, we drive and drive until arriving at a very cute, small tennis sanctuary, with just several indoor courts. The clubhouse feels like a mobile home, tight and cramped, without any frills. Four tennis players in a the locker room represent a packed house. But the club is immaculate and the ownership seems to be a tight, family run business. They create a very nice environment for tennis. 

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Sutton Place

Sutton Place tennis courts are covered with a white bubble in the winter. A white balloon blocks the cold and wind and general unsavory winter conditions. This white balloon slowly turns brown, the result of sitting so close to the FDR highway collecting smog and exhaust. By the end of winter, many players have a hard time seeing the tennis ball because this smog collected on the bubble actually darkens the tennis courts. The grime impedes their vision. Poor lighting and automobile pollution shouldn't have an affect on a tennis match. 

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Traveling for Tennis

Sometimes, playing tennis has nothing to do with tennis. I live downtown, on the east side, so traveling to the courts really isn't that easy. Usually, I take the Broadway line and then switch to the B or sometimes the C train at 59th street. I carry my tennis bag with everything I need for a match. I ride the subway and watch the people around me. I see them looking at my tennis bag with envy. Undoubtedly wishing they weren't working, or on their way to work, or just wishing they could just do something fun, like play tennis. 

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Holding Serve

Just win the service game. If I can just take care of my serve, everything else usually falls into place. A great deal of pressure lands on an opponent that can't break me. I apply pressure by holding serve, keeping the match on my terms. Frustration will eventually set, and then the set will set, and then the match will set. And then hopefully, there's a beautiful sunset. And then hopefully, I can wake tomorrow and do the same thing all over again.

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Distant Neighbors

Sometimes, after playing tennis on Roosevelt Island, I go next door to the hospital and visit George. I think that I'm the only one. George just wants out of there and they won't let him. He's losing his mind, and for good reason. That hospital's awful. Funny how the tennis courts and the hospital lay in such close proximity out on Roosevelt Island. Two different worlds sitting side by side. The great game of tennis sits so close to the sorrow of so many in that miserable hospital. Two very different worlds, just a few steps from each other, yet a million miles apart. 

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Doubles and Central Park Theory

Doubles in Central Park means I can play for two hours instead of one. Because I have four people on a court, I can sign up for two consecutive hours of play. I can play twice as long as I would in singles. But, I have to remember that because I have a partner, theoretically, I only hit half the shots in a match. This means that in a two hour doubles match, I should, theoretically, hit the same amount of tennis balls that I would in a one hour singles match. Obviously, this is all based upon theory, and subject to the level of play my partner and I demonstrate. For example, if I hit every shot into the net, the other team is likely to continue to hit the tennis ball in my direction. Thus, I may hit more tennis balls, but not very well. So much for theory. 

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The Old Guys in Central Park

Some of the "old guys" who play tennis in Central Park are amazing. I must say, there are quite a few "older gentleman." This makes sense. Young people are at work, busting their butts to make a few dollars for survival in this town. Many older people have already done their work and are leisurely playing tennis in Central Park. During the day, you can smell the "Ben-Gay" in the air. Old joints and bones and general problems, all involving athletics and age. Everyone wears some sort of brace, holding limbs together, keeping it tight. Age and tennis are a tough one. Let's face it, this game takes a pounding on the body after a while. But everyday, I see many of the same "older faces," with ointments and braces and whatnot. They pull themselves together and play some tennis. 

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Mind and Body

Sometimes the game just slows for me. I can literally see the writing on the tennis ball, whether it says Wilson or Penn. My feet jump towards their intended target. After all, successful tennis always stems from preparation. My mind instinctively prepares my body to react, and my feet are part of my body. Sometimes this instinct fails. Instincts can be tricky, especially in tennis. There always seems to be a period where my mind tells my body, and my body then tells my feet to react, and nothing happens. My mind fails my body, and my body fails my mind, and my feet never move, and I usually lose the point, and eventually the match. This happens to me on a regular basis.

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Serve and Volley Man

I'm a serve and volley man, an attacker on the tennis court. Serve and come in, attack, attack, attack. That's my game and always has been. I come after you. I become as aggressive as I possibly can. I hit the ball hard and drive towards the net. Sometimes, I have problems on the soft tennis courts in Central Park. While I enjoy these courts, the slowness doesn't naturally suit my game. The man made clay negates some of my power, which makes things more difficult. However, the man made clay is much easier on my knees and joints. The pounding of running on asphalt courts takes a toll. 

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Tennis Fitting into a Rhythm

I was playing tennis in Prospect Park. I had never played a tennis player like this before. Steve wore large headphones, blaring his music. I could hear the sounds on my side of the court. He thrashed his head in unison with the beat. The better the song, the better his game. Tennis fit into a rhythm and music dictated play.  My role as an opponent seemed meaningless. Only the music mattered. He hit that little, yellow ball with harmony and chords and different songs. Tennis became a live concert. From within this concert arose a complete tennis game. Steve beat me in straight sets, blaring his music and rocking me all the way back to Manhattan.

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Trolling for a Game

I'm in Central Park looking for some tennis. Usually, I would plan to meet another player for a match. But today, I decide that I will just "show up," and find some competition. So, I put my name on the "no show list" and sit court side, trolling for a game. I never know what I'm going to get. Sometimes, I find a player of a different playing level, which isn't that great. But sometimes, I find that perfect player. A player that has an answer for my shots and who has strengths where I have weakness. I find a match split evenly down the middle. A match where I'm forced to dig deep within myself for answers. Nothing beats a tight tennis match.

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The Comeback

There's nothing better than a comeback. Just the other day, I was down a set and playing terribly. I smacked that little, yellow ball into the net, into the back fence, far left, far right. I hit that ball everywhere except where I wanted, inside the lines. There was no pace, no rhythm to my game, and absolutely zero, cerebral orchestration of events. My match was a disaster. And then I just settled down and relaxed. I took some deep breaths and quit trying so hard. And then things just fell into place. Suddenly, the tennis ball actually landed where I was aiming. The points added up,  and the next thing I know, I had come back and won the match. 

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The Ball Machine

So I'm out on Roosevelt Island one morning, out for the "Early Bird Special." I'm really just hoping to hit with a ball machine. I want to work on my tennis game, a little, and get a nice workout. There's something about the rhythm of a ball machine shooting tennis balls. A big gun shooting little, yellow balls at the same spots over and over. And then I swing my composite racquet and connect. Snapping that poor little ball back towards the big gun. And then it shoots back at me another little, yellow ball. And then I again crack my composite racquet, sending that little, yellow ball sailing. Over and over the motions continue, while I try and develop some consistency, with a nice sweat. It just feels so good to hit that little, yellow ball. What's wrong with me?

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A Small Wager Between Friends

I don't consider myself a professional tennis player, although sometimes I do gamble. I'm not a big money guy, so there's only so much that I'm willing to let slide on a tennis match. But sometimes, I subscribe to a small wager between friends, to heighten the flavor of competition. Playing for money can change things, drastically. The game just becomes much more serious. Not necessarily worse, or better, but just different. I consider myself a decent money player. I try and stay calm under pressure, no matter what's riding on the outcome. 

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Tennis Ants and the US. Open

One of the best places to play a tennis match happens to be the National Tennis Center. These public courts are pristine and fun to play. It's somewhat of a haul taking the subway out to Queens, but the facility happens to be one of the best. They host the US. Open tournament every year, the pinnacle for New York City tennis seekers. I like the very beginning of the tournament best, when many matches are happening simultaneously. The crowd gravitates around the grounds, like ants. Searching for the next close match and then gathering. Whispers and murmurs trickle through the grounds, with any hint of an upset, or five set marathon. Tennis ants mill around the grounds gathering tennis, working the place like a giant ant hill. And then the tournament ends and the facility again becomes public domain. The ants continue to scramble though, seeking the next great tennis match.

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Sunday Mayhem and the Fight for a Court

Sunday can be a nightmare on the tennis court in New York City, especially in Central Park. The weekend warriors come out early, every kind of person that can be imagined. From all over the world they land in Central Park on any given Sunday morning, fighting for a court to play tennis. I rarely play on Sunday because of this mess, although sometimes I put myself into the mayhem. Landing a court takes patience and skill. Sometimes the wait can be hours. All of this makes people more than a little cranky. New York City tennis can be tough.  

The Cerebral and Seasoned Tennis Player

When I was younger, I had a big serve. I remember just blowing the ball by people. I would hit and follow, lumbering towards the net, trying not to trip over myself. I was a big, gangly kid, without much coordination. I matured well after any kind of career, or scholarship, was there for me. But I could hit the ball hard, and not much else. I wore my emotions on my sleeve, easily distracted and emotionally thin. I had nerves of glass, which cracked, splintered and disintegrated with even the slightest jolt. All of which added up to a pretty mediocre career as a junior tennis player, thank God. Any visions of grandeur were chucked out the window early, like most kids I think. Now I'm a different player. All grown up and looking for a good match. I won't blow anybody off of the court, but I'm tougher now. My nerves don't shatter so easily. I'm more cerebral and seasoned. I understand how to control rhythm and pace, the ebb and flow. I understand how to think through my points, so that I can win my tennis match.

Controlling the Point

Sometimes, I have to mix it up. I just can't play the same point over and over. I try and change the pace of the ball. I hit with more topspin and then throw in a slice. I move the ball around. I try and maneuver the ball, becoming more cerebral in play. I think through my points before they happen. It can be done. I move the ball around. I move my feet. I see my movements before they actually occur. And then I put the ball away, an overhead smash, well hit and out of my opponents reach. Sometimes, I mix it up, changing my positions and tactics. Never becoming complacent, focusing on a high level of execution. Sometimes, I hit the ball into the net, anyway. 

Perfect Tennis with Bob

I met Bob by chance, really. I was looking for a tennis match one day, trolling for a game by the Central Park tennis courts. Bob's a real player. He beats me on a regular basis. I have to play perfect tennis to win. He picks me apart from the baseline, while I continue to attack. Eventually, he puts too much pressure on me, and then I, in turn, put too much pressure on myself. The result is obviously a collapse, and I lose. We have very different styles of play, and very close matches. Bob's only downfall is that he doesn't handle adversity well. He also doesn't like distractions, such as movement around his vision, especially while serving. This can be rough on busy city courts, especially in Central Park. Sometimes, he'll become caught in these distractions, and then I take him. 

We Fell In Love Through Tennis

We fell in love through tennis. I don't mean this in a shallow way. Tennis is after all, "a game," or so I keep telling myself. I met my lover in the art gallery, over espresso and a conversation about what, I cannot remember. Her vibrancy overwhelmed our conversation. This meeting then led to an invitation to play tennis, and the rest is history. Her apartment sits adjacent to the tennis courts in Central Park. The Central Park tennis complex is over a hundred years old, having initially been a sight for lawn tennis in the late 1800's. She's a tennis junkie too, just not as fanatical as myself. 

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Letting Loose

Sometimes, I'm just not competitive. Sometimes, I just want to hit the little, yellow ball without the confines of a game, or a match, or points won and points lost. I just want some freedom to let go, and not really worry if the ball lands in or out. I want to unleash the discipline in my game, let  loose and just hit the ball without consequence.  

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Tennis with My Lover

I like to play tennis with my lover. She's so sexy hitting the tennis ball. Her curves are perfect, and the way she addresses the ball, with that tint of aggression, makes me dizzy. The chemistry of her womanhood drifts across the net into my nostrils. I can literally smell her from the other side of the court. We just rally for fun, without any competition, and I love to play tennis with her. Last summer we went to Newport for the Fourth of July. We dressed in our tennis whites and played on a grass tennis court, which smelled of natural flavors of earth and grass, with velvet softness underneath the feet. Hard courts, and even clay, have noise made from sliding sneakers, not produced on grass courts, something I never realized until I actually played on grass. Playing with my lover, with great smells and our tennis whites was truly fantastic.

Anything Close to the Line is Out

I'm warming up before my tennis match with an unfamiliar opponent. He gets out the line sweeper to clean the lines of our tennis court. I tell him,"I don't know why you're wasting your time." He smiles at me, and keeps cleaning the lines. I again say to him, "I don't know why you're wasting your time, anything close to those lines, and I'm going to call the ball out." He looks back at me, still smiling. He's thinking that I'm joking, that somehow I'm not telling the truth. But I'm completely honest. I don't know this guy. He doesn't get any favors from me. Anything close to the line is out. A bad call can psychologically devastate a tennis player. It can create a distraction, a mental challenge, a break in concentration. I know that morally, this is reprehensible, but this is also New York City tennis. 

Tennis in the Morning

Last winter, I started playing at this semi-private, tennis club out on Roosevelt Island. They were always trying to get me to join, but I'm just not a member's only, "tennis club" guy. It's just not my style. Besides, indoor tennis only has a place in the winter, if you ask me. So this place is full of cagey, stockbroker types, at least before the market went sour. I found this "Morning Bird Special," two hours for the price of one. Inside during the winter, not bad really. Indoor tennis is just expensive, at least here in New York City. These stockbroker types were fun to play against, not real athletic, but competitive. Most of these guys were a little older, although it's hard to generalize. I made some decent money last winter out on Roosevelt Island. Stockbrokers love to gamble. And the thing is, I happen to be a great early morning player. Things are simpler for me in the morning, which translates well to my tennis game. I don't "think too much," one of the true mental obstacles to overcome. Sometimes, my brain doesn't idle at the slow pace that it should, but usually in the morning I'm okay. Eventually, the weather turned to spring, and I moved outdoors and began playing more regularly in Central Park. 

Pretty Tennis Players Don't Always Win

Many times, on the tennis court, the prettiest player doesn't always win. I mean style counts for something, unless you're losing. On the city courts, there are many ugly players that will beat you into submission. You know, big, meaty, non-athletic men that play like mental pit bull terriers. The city courts have players in tee shirts, with sweat stains, grime, and certainly nothing pretty. Tennis whites need not apply. Country club wannabes, capture your own snob within. No, the city courts are for real tennis players, just a square, a net, a racquet, some balls, and a desire for a match. City court players have hair on their backs and no time for waxing. This is grit and gruff tied into a tennis game, and it's definitely not for everyone. 

Tennis and God

God told me that life plays like tennis. You play the odds, you control yourself, and on your worst days, no matter what you do, you still hit the ball into the net. Some days, that rectangle square, sitting on the other side of the net just needs to be bigger. I set myself up as a player, I prepare. I address the ball and I breath, and I take a big swing and hit the ball. Some days the ball lands in, some days the ball lands out. But I keep swinging, I keep thinking, I keep playing the odds. Some days the ball lands in, and the guy I'm playing against screws me. Always, the game moves forward.

Tennis, Like an Old Girlfriend

I really had not played competitive tennis since high school. Somehow the game just drifted out of my life. Well, that's not exactly true. I really just developed other interests. Until I moved to the New York City last year, I had lived in Santa Fe, New Mexico and Aspen, Colorado for nearly all of my adult life. Skiing and snowboarding and bicycling were the staples of my athletic existence. I had always lived in the mountains. So what did I do upon the culture shock of moving to the city? I went out to eat, of course. Like the video game "Pac Man," I gobbled up just about every kind of food imaginable, munching my way around Manhattan. I ate so much that I began to get fat and unhealthy. I decided that I needed to start something other than eating. Tennis seemed like an old friend who needed to come back into my life. She came back, kind of like an old girlfriend with consistently great chemistry. I dove in with passion, falling in love all over again. And I lost weight, pulled myself back into shape, and realized how much I missed the competition.

Riverside Red Clay

Every once in a while, I play tennis in Riverside Park. These Beautiful courts on the upper west side are the slow red clay, kind of like Roland Garros, in Paris. The tennis ball dies in the thick, red mud. My game falls a notch because I lose some power, but the park and these courts are absolutely beautiful. In the loose dirt, my game develops a slide to the ball, and ultimately patience and balance. It's hard to attack all the time on slow red clay. I have to pick my moments and pounce.

Tennis in the East Village

Sometimes, I find myself playing tennis on the public courts underneath the Williamsburg Bridge. This is the East Village. It's a different game down here. This is gritty tennis, in a tough park. This is tennis with a layer of grime. Sometimes, there's a group of players who come out on Sundays and play "old school tennis," with old wood racquets and long hair and seventies tennis attire. Replicating the golden years of the tennis player, dressing up as Bjorn Borg and John McEnroe, and Vitas Geralaitis, all rock stars of tennis, from a different era. I think it's a group of gay men actually, who usually dress in drag, adding some theatre and drama into playing tennis on a Sunday afternoon. Getting into costume and playing adds a nice slant to the game. Something you will only find underneath the Williamsburg Bridge, playing tennis in the East Village. Surrounded by the smell of traffic and garbage, and just tough, city life. 

Tennis is My Real Passion

I'm a tennis player. I would call this my real passion. And I'm not one of those soft, country club types, either. No way, I play in Central Park on the public courts. A place where you better be tough, and when there's a court open, you better jump, and quick. There's no room for softies and crybabies. It's not exactly a country club setting. This is New York City tennis, tough and gritty, and you better bring your game. Usually, I play with the older guys, a group of retired teachers, living off of their pensions, focusing on their tennis. Not real athletic, but that little yellow ball always comes back. I tend to be fairly athletic without much mental capacity. I often beat the best players, while losing to the worst. But my good days carry me through, and I love to play tennis.