Winning the men’s U.S. Open Singles Championship is as straightforward as drag racing. Beat seven of the world’s best tennis players in two humid, kinetic, pressure-cooker, rain-delayed weeks before tennis’ loudest crowds and pocket the one-point-eight million dollar first prize. Getting to the Open, however, is more involved. Like running the Dakar Raid Rally. On a segue.
The road to the Open has three scenic checkpoints. First, there is the 256-player Sectional Qualifying Tournament at Chamisal Tennis Club in Carmel Valley. That was eight two-out-of-three-set rounds Wally would have to win.
A victory there would earn him a spot in the National Playoffs in New Haven, Connecticut, competing against twelve other winners from USTA sections around the country. Win four rounds at Yale, and he’d run the final gauntlet – The U.S. Open Playoffs. Three more victories at Flushing Meadows against a steaming stew of global hopefuls would mean main draw of the U.S. Open at the end of August. Probably against one of the top seeds. In Ashe stadium. At night. With Johnny and P Mac announcing the action, setting the table and fileting the flaws.
Once at the Open, he’d be done with checkpoints, and into the hot, crowded, manic homestretch. He’d have to win seven best-of-five-set matches to be the champion. From qualifying to CBS signoff stretched a grand total of twenty-two rounds and a minimum of fifty-one sets to win the one point eight million dollars. Parceled out, that was $81, 818.19 per round. Better than teaching. Harder than a mixed-level doubles clinic. And like first dates everywhere, there was only so much you could do to prepare.
Besides the logistics and the technicalities, most aspiring players also drunk in a sobering reality. Everyone else in pro tennis was also trying to do the same thing. And everyone in that game was in their twenties and thirties. Wally was in his twenties plus his thirties, but he had a chance because he had a gift. Or a curse. Or a cursed gift. Whichever it was, in an age of power tennis, he had the power.
Built in 1975, named after a chaparral shrub and hidden in the folds of plein-air primed California hills, Chamisal Tennis Club and Fitness Center was a weathered, shingled and elegantly understated flower of a venue. With thirteen courts, lush grounds and unavoidable pulchritude around every corner and jammed into every hilly vista, the event featured a kind, congenial staff and a California casual, no-worry, moneyed vibe that mocked and softened the impact and tempo of the ultimate destination for the victors – New York City in August and September.
Chamisal supplied a benevolent surround for the big-stage dream. With none of the nervous intensity of a junior tournament or frantic skullduggery of the USTA leagues, it was a Robert Zemekis wormhole to the convivial, generous quantum state before grunts, threats and multi-compound outsoles. The kind of club where Stan Smith might enjoy a well-mannered match with the Marquess of Queensberry on court two. The place brought out the peaceable kingdom impulse in even tennis wildlifers from this quantum state.
Wally, Willy, Rod Laver the Dog and a Prince NEOS 1000 stringing machine galloped up to Chamisal on Thursday morning, June 9th and immediately went to work. Wally warmed up, stretched, watched some of the early matches, and scanned the drawsheet for names he knew. He dutifully ate the twelve-thousandth turkey sandwich of the month and felt he truly understood why Sampras often looked so cuffy and laconic. He was touched by culinary monotony cut with tryptophan. The blue mood special.
Willy stretched the limits of string tensions, guages and cold call patience while on the headset to media outlets and his customers. He also retailed for travel funds, selling copies of Wally’s book, Brain, Set, Match and “Where There’s A Wilson There’s A Way” t-shirts and stuffed Australian Shepard toys. He offered a special book, t-shirt, plushy dog combo package at a slight discount that sold out later.
Rod Laver the Dog slept and received pets and inquiries about his name.
This tournament was serious business for a few, but Wally discovered that many of the entrants had no designs on Flushing Meadows or any pro event, except as spectators. They just came to play a competitive tournament against quality players. And there were some. The men’s draw showed ATP journeymen, 5.0 warriors and some college and high school stars. There were also some NTRP hopefuls of a certain age or rating.
With no seedings, the early pairings provided all varieties of match drama. Two 4.5’s squared off in a gentle clash of unforced errors, stroke glitches and score reconciliation conferences. Two ATP outliers fought a tough three-setter on an outlying court.
But even a casual fan would have mistaken only a few of the matches for a pro bout. Many players simply didn’t have the right tempo or power or clothing to pass themselves off as “players”. On tour, the price of admission was great ball-striking. Here it was $134.87. Some entrants still needed stroke instruction, and all but a couple desperately needed Tim Gunn. The two ATP journeymen dressed like they were playing a main draw match. But they were the exceptions. The rest looked fit for a practice hit at the local high school, or plumbing.
Wally also discovered that he wasn’t the oldest player in the draw. His first round opponent was. Sam Tabur was a sixty-something, 3.5-level defense attorney in Wimbledon whites with two knee braces and a bucket hat who just wanted to spend a few days in Carmel Valley and then shop at Spanish Bay and Carmel with his new girlfriend.
Wally won easily and tried hard not to injure him. He almost succeeded, except for a pair of thigh welts, high and inside, a ricocheted forehand mishit to the right clavicle and a scary low serve to his left knee. The post-match handshake was strained, literally. By then, Sam’s hitting arm had stiffened up and his fingers wouldn’t flex. He promised not to press charges, and Willy plead it down to an autograph and a book.
Since this year’s gathering gathered only thirty-one players, and the tournament was trimmed to five rounds, Wally’s win plopped him into the round of 16. Four rounds to go here and nineteen big-picture. He could almost hear Darren Cahill and Pam Shriver.
Next, Wally faced Curtis “Flea” Flicker, a five-foot-three high school team juggernaut and Chamisal legacy from Salinas. His parents, his girlfriend and the club members whooped and whinnied as he skittled around the playing surface. He owned a competent baseline game with too much net clearance and a twitchy serve. It hardly mattered. Even two-centimeter net clearance and a silken starting line delivery wouldn’t have helped him. Wally bageled him and he left the court mumbling like a Robert Altman character. Postmatch, his mother frowned, furled and glowered at Wally. His girlfriend, inventing brilliantly or deftly quoting Ivan Lendl, called Wally, “Nothing but a serve and a straw hat,” which was ironic since not only was his game comprehensive, but his hat was woven from Palmata leaves. But whatever.
Two rounds down. Eighteen to go.
The first two rounds had been low-hassle, warm-up walkoffs, but even so, Wally could tell he was more match-ready than two weeks ago. Since then, he had played not only Nikolai Gogol, but also George Hegel and John Sartre. Willy said they were staff pros, but Wally had never heard of them or seen them, even on Tennis Channel. They were really either the pick-up rhythm section for the great books combo or those were denial aliases. Regardless, they had big serves and steely nerves. The competition and the wins had toughened him up. Bring on Henry James, Henry Miller or Henny Youngman, thought Wally. He was ready.
Perhaps his new confidence was also due to the Wilson Regimen. Wally was down ten pounds since he saw Dr. Fleischman for the tests that ultimately showed nothing wrong and he was noticeably lighter on his feet. But then, so was a bison. He was spryer, but his new bovine agility came packaged with near feline fatigue. Reduced calories and increased exercise made for unstable mates, especially when nursed on apprehension and adrenaline. After today’s two, short matches, Wally would need a nap and ten hours’ sleep. And he had to play two more tomorrow. The mid-afternoon eighty-degree heat didn’t help either. He was going to have to lose more weight and get more fit for seven best-of-fives at the humid, nervy Open. That meant more roadwork,
more core, more pasta. And no Alfredo, no crème brulee and no beer. And three months of regimen to go. Thin to win was his new mantra. He’d better win.
Willy and Rod Laver the Dog met him when he stepped off the court. Wally schmozzeled Rod’s red fur and Willy took Wally’s two twelve-racquet bags. They walked together to the tournament desk.
“Only broke six today,” said Wally.
“For two matches. That’s good,” said Willy. “Maybe we found the right gauge.”
“But I’m still hitting long on some groundies. Can you string ‘em tighter?”
“They’re at capacity. I’ve pushed them all I can, captain. I don’t think she’ll take any more.”
“Then put some back into it, man.”
“Aye, captain, a hundred pounds or bust,” said Willy. “Probably bust.”
Wally gave his score to the tournament director, the kindly, relaxed Chamisal head pro. The pro paused while writing and looked up at Wally.
“Wally Wilson?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“It’s been a long time. Stan Stansbury. I played at Cal.”
“Stan with the big kick serve and the shady line calls?”
“Yeah,” said the affable pro,” I had a kicker.”
“Nice to see you,” said Wally. They shook hands. “This is my brother, Willy. And my associate, Rod Laver.”
“Hey.”
“Hi,” said Willy.
“So, you were at Stanford, right?” said Stan.
Wally nodded. “Carried McEnroe’s racquets. Played number thirty-eight.”
“Great to see you again. You had that little slice first and a bad temper.”
“Yeah, I had a slice.”
“I watched you today. You worked on your game. You a pro?”
“Of a sort. Teaching pro.”
“Teach me that serve?”
“Wish I could.”
“I understand. Cal-Stanford thing, right?”
“No, an I-don’t-know-how-I-do-it-thing.”
“Well, if you figure it out. Keep us in mind. My seniors team has wanted a little somethin’-somethin’.”
“You’re on the list. Right behind Sharapova.”
“I’ll stand there.” He paused, but Wally didn’t take the guy-joke bait. “Should be a fight tomorrow. You play that USC kid.”
“Nine a.m., right?”
“Yeah. And don’t forget the player party tonight.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll send my brother. Party tonight. Match at nine. Can’t do both.”
“Copy that. Let the groms knock themselves out.”
“See you tomorrow.”
As they walked away, Willy put his arm around Wally’s shoulder. “Bro, my plan is working.”
“You mean the you-got-me-to-play-this-thing plan?”
“Yeah, that of course, but I also sold fifteen books, eight tees and a stuffed dog today. And I scouted the kid you play in the morning.”
“Why?”
“Travel money. I made four hundred bucks.”
“No, Brad Gilbert, why’d you scout the kid?”
“That’s what coaches do.”
“But I’m Serena. I only have one strategy.”
“I know. But I gotta keep busy. If I don’t, I watch the women’s matches and that’s trouble.”
The two large tennis players and the red tennis dog crammed into the breezy Mustang and drove the fifteen minutes to the Margincalls’ house on the 18th fairway at Pebble Beach. It was the usual Margincall property, huge, opulent, immaculate and empty. Ashley had suggested they stay and since Wally didn’t want to sell any more retirement stock to play a spec long shot, he agreed. There were worse solutions. The house was stunning, free and thankfully, Ashley-free too. At the moment, she was in Paris for the weekend, not shocking the French. He and his brother should both be safe.
For dinner, Wally was served another evening of his red sauce pasta, chicken breast and vinaigrette salad sentence, and thought about how he’d actually enjoyed himself on the court today and how different it was to play for yourself. Being a teaching pro for a couple hundred years made you very steady, but conditioned you to hit the ball right back to the other player and then hope that they beat you. Here he could actually watch the ball before he hit it and he was allowed to blast winners to the open court without apologizing. And win. It felt dangerous and illicit.
His new regimen wasn’t perfect, though. Right after dinner, Wally’s stomach went back into meal denial. He thought how great a nice Pinot or a polish or a banana split would taste and fell asleep in the five thousand square-foot master suite, dreaming of gnocchi carbornara. Rod Laver the Dog curled up next to him and dreamed of pasta, chicken and salad scraps. But that made sense. He was a dog. He was always starving.
Willy had the nice pinot, carefully strung six frames at a hundred per and went off to the player party.
Wally was up the next day at six. He stretched, ran a mile warm-up with Willy and Rod Laver the Dog and had oatmeal, juice and toast for breakfast. He had to admit that every day he did feel lighter, faster and more virtuous, even though he still didn’t have much energy. And he was always hungry. If you got right down to it, despite the obvious benefits, controlled portions spewed. So did power of the mind and deferred gratification. He knew how his dog felt.
Courtesy of a Margincall membership, he and Willy hit for half an hour at the Pebble Beach courts, and then drove back to Chamisal. Stan put him on promptly at nine, where his opponent, Plato Toonah, a twenty-two year-old USC Senior launched a two-front intimidation offensive during the pre-match handshake.
“Do you know who I am?” said Plato, bouncing violently on his toes and swiping his racquet like a ninja.
“It was on the draw sheet, right?”
“That’s right. Plato Toonah. Ranked number one nationally. I play for USC.”
Plato took a couple shadow strafing passes with his racquet. This jabby mime show must have played strong in college.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Wally Wilson. No ranking. Used to play for Stanford.”
Plato was still bouncing. “So what are you doing here?”
“Trying to qualify for the Open.”
“You’re as old as my dad.”
“Only partially my fault,” said Wally. “Your dad could have started younger.”
“Oh, I get it. I took statistics.” Plato slowed his feet, almost settled onto the court and squinted at Wally’s Pro Staff Original, swaddled in scallops of lead tape.
“Anyway, is that legal? Isn’t it too small? Can I see it?”
Wally handed it to him.
“Dude, what is this?”
“Nineteen ounces.”
Plato hit it against his hand. “Jesus! Strung at what?”
“Whatever the machine will pull.”
“They make bigger frames now.”
“Yeah, but they’re too light and powerful. I need control more than power right now.”
“We’ll see about that. We all need more power.”
That was the prevailing view. Yet few players ever came off the court after a loss and said, “I wish I’d hit the ball harder.” Certainly not Wally. And as Plato soon learned, they did see about that.
The match had its moments. For Plato, exactly seven of them. He was a skilled defender with veldt-worthy split times, and managed to guess right, block a few serves back and get a Fifteen or a Thirty. His speed also served him well as he ducked and weaved to avoid getting hit. At every crucial juncture, though, Wally’s power proved too much for him and he won quickly 6 –0, 6 – 0. At the net for the shake, Plato asked to borrow one of Wally’s racquets, and said Wally could definitely hit hard enough. He wished Wally the best at the Open and bounced out the gate.
Wally’s next match was even quicker. His opponent, Doug Trench, the number two guy at USC had scouted the first match, saw what happened to his teammate, instantly knew he was coming down with either a groin strain or a back pull and preem
ptively defaulted. Shortly after the first set, he was in his car, halfway back to Bel Air.
Wally was into the finals, with some energy saved. Mercifully, too. He probably had only one more match in him this weekend.
The qualifying matches at Chamisal were usually attended solely by family, friends or future opponents, but Wally’s two matches drew close to three hundred third parties. Some from other sports and some from Macau and Vegas. People paparazzed him as he traversed the club. With his size, he was hard to miss anyway, but with his new renown, Panama hat and two racquet bags, he really stood out now. The pro, Stan, brought out his radar gun and his camera. The hot readouts fed the fire. Wally could hear gasps of admiration after certain serves and forehands and felt the probing eyes of the crowd on him the whole time. It actually felt pretty cool. Way different than a late match dead rubber in college.
Serving two-fifteen. Threshing and bailing the favorites. None of it went unnoticed. Wally’s reputation had spread like free money. Stepping off the court, the assembled photographed him. Some asked him to sign curved or flaccid surfaces like tennis hats, a tournament t-shirt or a bicep. And Willy sold them stuff. Whenever Wally played, people watched and they were with him. If he wasn’t viral yet, he was at least bacterial.
After a wait for Trench and the default, Willy and Rod Laver the Dog were both loitering expectantly for Wally at the courtside gate. Rod for his post-match fur fluff and Willy for more reorder pre-orders. Waiting with them this time was a petite, bespectacled woman with soft, brown, tight curls wearing a drop-waist dress. That was not unusual. In fact, it was predictable. Willy had gone to the player party.
“Eleven shredded string jobs, five dismembered frames and four serves over two-fifteen,” she said to Wally. “Your brother told me you were the strongest AARP member here.”
“Could be. It’s a small category.”
“Bro, this is Zelda,” explained Willy. “We met at the party last night.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said. “Wally Wilson.”
“I know. I’m Zelda. Fitzgerald. And, yes, my parents wanted either a writer or a flapper. I think they forgot the part where she was burned alive in a mental hospital.”
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