Who
are these
people?
Sometimes things just don’t work out. For the past five years, I’ve traveled
to Palm Springs for the Newsweek/Evert Cup. A few decades ago, this was
a minor little tennis tournament, the brainchild of tennis legend Charlie
Pasarell, a nice, mid-day interlude to a day of sun, golf, and tennis for the
very, very rich. The inner parking lots still contain as many Bentleys as
Highland Mall has Fords. This much, at least, hasn’t changed.
At first, the only pros who played in the scenic Coachella Valley were those
who owed chits to Pasarell. Slowly, that began to change. More and more pros
saw the merit of an early season tune-up for the upcoming outdoor season. The
field began to sport a Grand Slam look. The fledgling tournament gained a
reputation as an early look at soon-to-be superstars. Names like Jim Courier,
Pete Sampras, and Michael Chang first tasted blood in this desert hideaway,
catapulting them to long stays in the top 10.
Now, it’s a big event. Getting a hotel room anywhere in this valley is close
to impossible ($450 per night not being unusual). The day I arrived, the second
round match-ups looked something like this: B. Ulihrach vs. F. Clavet, B. Black
vs. Q.G. Kuerten, W.C. Stark vs. A. Berasategui, J. Bjorkman vs. C. Woodruff. I
could go on. You get the point. As I said, sometimes things don’t work out. As
a tennis fan, to be perfectly honest, I’d never heard of these people, who
sounded more like members of a U.N. subcommittee on world hunger than tennis
pros. Sampras, Courier, Andre Agassi, Richie Reneberg, Sergi Bruguera, Guy
Forget, Javier Sanchez, Wayne Ferreira, and Gorgo Ivanisevic had all already
taken a powder. The match-up of B. Ulihrach and J. Bjorkman had to be the most
obscure major tennis semi-final match in the history of American tennis.
The woman’s draw, with Graf — injured, distracted, bored — and Lady Monica
not even there, you can only imagine the field trivia test, starting with: Who
the fuck is A. Sugiyama?
This descent into the deepest depths of who’s who caused me to ponder the
future of the sport. Though the Newsweek Tournament is well-attended, a
glance at the decimated draws is scary. Why would anyone tune in to watch
tennis anymore? With many of the top players in the world having names with
more consonants than a can of vegetable soup, ratings may be kick-ass in
Belgrade, but not too hot in Tucson. Agassi’s in a prolonged — I’d say a
career-long — swoon. Chang, a gritty but limited player with the charm of a
beige golf tee, has seen his career peak. The great Sampras, also with the
personality of a cracker, at 26, is old by tennis standards. His best days are
past. The European talent is as dull as a Polish war museum.
The women’s game, always on the brink of disaster, is again tottering on the
precipice; Steffi Graf, the best in the world for so long I can hardly remember
Chris Evert, is 28; Monica Seles, who will never be but a shadow of the nasty
competitor who main-lined pure methadrine into the game every time she stepped
on the court, is again injured. The woman’s game is in big trouble.
Sometimes things don’t work out, Part 2: A little grain of sand…
I don’t know how to say this exactly, but a tiny grain of sand, in the proper
place, can cause a form of agony I’d previously never believed possible.
Admittedly a delicate subject, what’s the proper balance? A little too much
is… too much, but let’s try.
It’s said passing a kidney stone is like having a baby. I can’t, thank God,
attest to this. For reasons just like this, I’ve never for a moment regretted
being male. I can tell you that passing the old stone is no way to spend
a working vacation. It began with a trip to the most bizarre minor emergency
center in America. The “doctor” consulted a book concerning each and every
symptom discussed. Though he services the most elderly population on the
continent, the “doctor” was baffled by my obvious symptoms. “Hope you feel
better,” was the extent of his medical ministrations. A frantic midnight trip
to the Eisenhower Regional Hospital soon followed. I thought I was dying, or at
least I hoped, if I couldn’t get well real damned soon, I would. Something
mean, with rows of sharp teeth, was eating itself out of my stomach. They give
you morphine, which may sound like fun, but astoundingly, it only dulls the
pain. My low point came when, after being released, I had to return, in more
agony than when I arrived 12 hours earlier. The doc shook his head and
observed, “Sometimes these things pass in a day, sometimes…” in a fucking
week!!!
Dear God. The next day, impassioned prayers being answered, the pain was
somewhat relieved. Still, my condition can only be understood in this context.
I didn’t know — or care — that Texas was in the Sweet 16 until the next day.
Golf, tennis, and good dining? Yeah, sure. Now, writing on a cramped airliner,
kidneys aching, still way below half-way on the feel-okay-health-o-meter, I
hope you understand if things here seem more disjointed than usual. Sometimes,
things just don’t work out.
This article appears in March 21 • 1997 and March 21 • 1997 (Cover).