SLAMMIN'

by Marcus Cootsona

  Maybe.

  Men’s tennis was built on the Four Mobile Truths. Federer, Nadal, Djokovic and Murray. They gripped the game and the fans’ hearts like a bench vise. And during a Major, home viewers could safely skip the commercials and the first five rounds. The semis would be hard-fought but preordained. But the givens weren’t as certain this year. No one knew what to expect in a vast, arid expanse with steep off-season discounts. Things could go all tabula rasa. Some of the expected results might just defy expectation. And Red loved a good shakeup, especially at the Open. Safin in 2000. Del Potro in 2009. It bonded the fans with the pros and it made viewers into viewers. Especially if an American did the shaking. Red fondly remembered Jimmy Connors’ run to the semis in ‘91 at age 39. Jimbo’s heroics not only moved the needle, they spiked it. And the late ad buys.

  We should be only so lucky this year, he thought. Bring on some random. For him, that was real sports.

  In short, Red believed that the game had become too star-kissed and top-10 obsessed. He wanted a little more NFL parity, and not a flippin’ Champions’ League monarchy. In his mind, Tennis needed a swift forehand to the head. Some untoward results lightly topped with a sprinkling of I-Ching. Here in the desert, in 2011, in this glittering cauldron, he was about to get his wish.

  The Indian Well Tennis Garden was built in 2000 for $77 million. Its 16,100- spectator stadium was the second largest in the world and it had just flung its frock open for a smokin’ after-hours quickie. The incendiary move burned some and ignited others. And some thought it was just a fizzled punk. March was the desert weather zone. It was the month of the BNP Paribas Open. A two-week tennis party with temps in the 80’s and 90’s. By contrast, August and September were way offseason for Palm Desert. The next two weeks promised midday mercury of 106 or higher. With on court temps pushing one twenty-five. But, as Red pointed out, the players dealt with these highs at the Australian Open, and he didn’t see any reason for them to knot their compression shorts about it. It was after all an outdoor sport.

  Since Friday, the Tennis Garden had become a time-lapse bloom of activity. A million tournament-critical details were crammed into one long weekend. Banners were being hung. Signs put up. Locker rooms readied. Vendor boxes unpacked. The food court was on 24-hour prep. The U.S. Open usually took almost a year to prepare and now it had three days. But Red knew his staff could do it. He had faith, hubris and a secret weapon never before used by the USTA.

  Larry Ellison.

  The patron mogul of America’s Cup, improbable mansions and desert tennis, Larry was delighted to be able to host a West Coast Open. Especially one whose stuffy bodice had been ripped open by a cagey suitor, exposing an alluring, willing, fun-loving minx of a Major. As soon as he got the call, he drafted a thousand Oracle interns, threw out the corporate box seats and announced that all tickets were ten dollars. He also seduced a bevy of West Coast sponsors who shared his delight and contrarianism. Apple, Google and Oracle joined Solyndra and a dozen other in-state movers who all wanted to think different too. He even offered to goose the men’s and women’s prize money by one million dollars each. Just to make sure everyone made the trip. The USTA was set to vote on it on Tuesday. But Larry knew how to run companies and motivate people. The Open would be ready. The prize money would go up. He was Larry.

  In Ellison hands, the whole event felt fundamentally different. As if Donald Trump were czar of golf. Or Taylor Swift, Speaker of the House. Anything could happen. And quickly. The hype would go gushing out in buckets. But the momentum would be unstoppable. Everything would simply move too fast for the usual straw-hatted fustiness to rule these fourteen days. The crowded powder keg of New York had given way to the expansive quick burn of the California desert.

  The location change upended many of the usual rhythms and rituals too. There was no time for Arthur Ashe Kid’s Day or player parties, Wall Street genuflecting or functionary coddling, or questions of whether the basics would be fully in place for round one Monday. Ready or not, they’d be open for business. The earnest intensity of the preparation made a castle siege look like a dorm party. The pace was brisk and bracing and all about the tournament. There were, however, rumors of a free, Oracle-Visa Talking Heads reunion concert Sunday night. Who knew what to think of that? Then, in this place, it seemed as probable as anything else.

  The living and working conditions in the desert were fundamentally different too. The Tennis Garden was near Washington Street, just off highway 10 in an expanse of dunes, fescue and desert cottontail bunnies, with a few square miles of Kentucky Blue rolled down just for parking lot dust suppression. There were no subways, no real downtown, no traffic. Just sun, more sun, retirees, movie stars, California tech money, LA second homeowners and older tournament volunteers wearing lots of turquoise over tanned, leathery skin who sometimes got a little grumpy in the late afternoon. This was a leisure and retirement area, not a self-impressed metropolis. No bustle of world events. No Madison Square Statue of Empire State Nobu on Broadway. Just golf courses, elective procedures and steak houses. During a tournament, you might need a little extra time at the stoplights on highway 111, but there was no urban expanse to cross to get to the matches. This Open was a vacation, not a job.

  It was all so healthy, self-actualized, organic, relaxed and SoCal, it felt like a giddy fiesta. Tesla provided courtesy cars. Spago, food. And Hollywood, the atmosphere. The USTA might never forgive Red for the move, but the money did. The sponsors and the networks agreed. The Red and Larry show was a hit in previews.

  One more thing was for sure. Lots of average fans who wouldn’t or couldn’t afford to make the trip to the Queens would come to Coachella. Out to the wide open spaces, for a wide open Open. No entrenched interests here and no home field advantage. Just plenty of heat, expensive booze and cheap seats. This would be the People’s Open.

  Once some people got there.

  On this Saturday before, many of The People were still on a freeway and the Charlotte Bobcats had better attendance. As for the players, The Four Pillars and a few others had arrived with their hitting partners, cortege, courtesans and courtiers. That was it, except for Wally. His entourage was a tall sibling seeking relationship clarity and a red dog seeking a shade tree. His wife was a hostage, his kids were at home and his friends were fixing forehands. Even Zelda had stayed air-conditioned at the PGA West house researching Wally for her two weeks of U.S. Open stories.

  But Wally’s game was simple. Like axe throwing. He didn’t need much help with it. And not much workout time. In fact, the less, the better. Retchy Crane and his dad had landed the night before too in their Gulfstream 550 and Willy had snagged Retchy for a quick morning hit. They ran the serve, return and run around drill with Retchy Crane Senior at net. Senior was something like the Andorran Tony Stark – a roguish, loquacious billionaire filling unmet needs in some unappealing industries. He owned all of the portable toilet, artisanal laxative and marionette porn business in Andorra, Luxembourg and Malta and had the populations coming and going. He’d recently dived into organic grouse suppositories as well. He was a rich and busy Euro-baron, but he’d kept up his junior tournament chops and fed balls like a resort pro. Some Senior too. He was easily twenty years younger than Wally. A child father? Which got Wally to thinking – he hoped his own kids would wait a little. Not like alone he’d have any control over it.

  Retchy and Wally took turns serving to each other and Wally struggled with Retchy’s one-fifty kicker. Although Retchy was tall and skinny, he could serve faster than a Cessna, with more spin than a campaign advisor. Wally was impressed, complimented him and Retchy whispered back a terse thanks. Although they got along fine, that was the verbal rapport total for the entire hit.

  Retchy just didn’t say very much. He was a six-eight, shy kid with a high voice, who didn’t even use the locker room. Or jaw with the other pros. It could have been because of his age. Or the omnipresent Senior. Or some Andorran custom. Like the pervy puppets. Whatever the reason,
he was a tennis monogamist and never seemed to stop training. Or playing. He and Wally were definitely opposites. A naturally gregarious teaching pro and an introverted tyro. The oldest player and the youngest player in the men’s field. At the top and bottom of the draw. With contrasting strengths, and practice styles and waistlines. One at the start of a career. The other where exactly? But together, they were electric. Or at least, eclectic.

  With their John Force serves, Avatar height and yawning age gap, their court drew a crowd of geeks, gawkers and early adopters. Like a Nessie sighting. Or a new iPhone. For many fans, practice court sightings were better than autographs. The combination of the two, unbeatable. One messy-haired fanatic in gamey sweats and old Barricades even knew both their names, their grip sizes, their third set second serve percentages, and drop shot spin rotation. At the end of the drill, Wally and Retchy traded groundstrokes and volleys for five minutes and each signed autographs for another thirty.

  As they finished, players that Wally recognized from TV, the internet and Tennis Channel ads started to trickle in. The me-too physio circus had officially arrived. The movement, energy and perk were as relentless as a morning news segment. The talent were all out drilling pre-existing strengths with their stone-faced coaches, and cardioing and agilitying. They soccered on the pitch next to the courts, and they didn’t stop moving. Didn’t they get enough exercise? Clearly, they were all planning to run a marathon. But Wally did the fifty. For him, any zip spent now was zing he wouldn’t have for a money match.

  He worked out enough.

  Not Retchy. He was one of them. He did forty or fifty “Cranes” for the cameras, then dashed off for a quick ten-miler before his afternoon hits. He couldn’t seem to get enough. And Wally couldn’t get little enough. After their short workout in the desert sun, Wally was dripping, drooping and wanted a nap. But, tough insoles, it was stretching time. The nap a distant oasis. Or a mirage. Stretching was his training. Twice or more a day. His whole body, but especially his legs. Hamstrings and gastrocs first, quads last. Never pleasant, but easier here in the heat. Triple digits almost made the stretching bearable. But not quite.

  It didn’t matter. He had to do it, or more precisely, Willy had to do it for him.

  Wally was big, naturally inflexible and groaned and as his brother tried to stretch him into shape. Gleefully ignoring his resistance, Willy worked aggressively and deep. He’d waited years for this kind of younger brother payback.

  “Got a look at the draw,” said Willy, bending Wally’s right heel uncomfortably to his right glut.

  “And?” said Wally, gasping.

  “You’re on it.”

  “That’s good news,” said Wally in full wince. “You sure you’re doing that right?”

  “Uh, huh.” He bent the leg farther. “You’re first up Tuesday.”

  Wally inhaled deeply. “Bottom half?”

  “Yup. The Nadal, Murray section.”

  “Nadal and Murray. Good to know.”

  Willy pulled the leg down farther.

  “Ow! So, what are my career stats against them anyway?” asked Wally. “Oh, that’s right, I don’t have any!”

  “Wallace?”

  “Or against anybody. So why did you tell me that? Why does it matter?”

  “Bro?”

  Willy switched to the left leg. Wally tried to exhale, then squinted hard again.

  “What?”

  “Try to relax,” said Willy.

  “You think about playing them.”

  “You’re whining.”

  “I’m not whining. I’m shrieking impotently. Anyway, you’re enjoying this.”

  Pushing the leg another notch. “I am not enjoying this.”

  Wally looked back at Willy.

  “Alright! I’m enjoying this.”

  “Yeah. See?” said Wally. “I know. Just think about you playing them.”

  Willy tried to comfort him. “It’s scary, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s scary.”

  “One thing at a time, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course. We’re a team.”

  A pause as Wally tried hard to absorb the next stretch.

  “I know what you’re doing,” said Wally.

  “What?”

  “You’re trying to break my leg!”

  “Your leg will be fine.”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s think instead about Olivier Rochus,” said Willy. “You’ve got him first round.”

  “Rochus. Okay. Good idea. What do we know about him?”

  “Nothing.”

  Willy pushed the left leg further.

  Another gasp. “Nothing?”

  “I don’t really watch tennis,” said Willy. “But don’t worry, our quant’s all set to parse him up for you.”

  “Our quant?” said Wally.

  “Yeah.”

  Wally grimaced. He felt stretched enough.

  “Our quant?”

  “Yeah, quant. You know, a numbers and analysis guy. All the top players have ‘em now.”

  “Like my friends Nadal and Murray?”

  “Probably. Come on, you know the old expression? A match well-scouted is a match half-won.”

  “It is?” said Willy.

  “Yes, Mr. Analog. It is an expression. And it’s true. We do this right and you’ll finish in three with a couple of breaks.”

  “Will I still have to play?”

  Willy stopped the enhanced techniques and flipped on his iPad.

  “Just wait a minute,” said Willy. “I think you’ll agree. This guy’s good.”

  After a moment, Deuce’s face flicked on. He was dressed in a tuxedo, standing impatiently in their living room. Addie was stationed right behind him.

  “Deuce?” said Wally happily, his face still tensed though like a vice principal.

  “About time, dad,” said Deuce. “I’ve been cooling it here for an hour.”

  “Sorry. Autographs,” explained Wally.

  “Awesome. Who’d you get?”

  “I was signing them.”

  “Even more awesome.”

  Addie chimed in.

  “Hi Dad! Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m saving all my old birthday cards. Maybe we can sell them on Ebay.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” said Deuce. “For a cancelled reality pilot.”

  He elbowed out Addie and retook the screen.

  To Wally. “Dad, you look like you’re in pain. You okay?”

  “No.”

  “Well take care of yourself. Don’t get too flexible.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Willy. “He won’t.”

  “Uncle Willy told me you need a book on Rochus.”

  “I do. I don’t know him. But I know I can trust you.”

  “You sure can. I won’t auction off my birthday memories.”

  Addie stuck her tongue out at him.

  “So, here’s the ATP Guide stuff,” continued Deuce. “He’s Belgian. Twenty-seven in the world. Right-handed. Five-six. One forty-three.”

  “Okay.”

  “Excellent movement. Which makes sense. He’s a small guy. Plays a defense and speed game. Topspin forehand. Spin or slice one-handed backhand.”

  “How’s his season been?”

  “Beat Bagdahtis and Youzhny in Miami. Lost to Delpo in four at Wimbledon, Isner in the Newport final, and Kevin Anderson and Berdych in straights. He has trouble with the big serve. Your kind of opponent.”

  Addie came up behind Deuce and pantsed him.

  Deuce, to Addie, “Excuse me, some of us are quanting here.”

  “Without your pants, nerd.”

  Deuce reached around, swung at her and barely missed. Addie angled into the shot.

  “And, dad, I think I’m going to be playing number one doubles on the team,” she said. “Because I have good reflexes and a hot teacher.”

  “That’s great, sweetie.”

  “And seriously, we’re all rooting for you,” she
said.

  A shirtless Dirk yelled in from the kitchen, “Me too.”

  “That was really lovely,” said Deuce, pulling up his pants. “Now go away. I’m being helpful.”

  “Okay, excuse us for living.”

  “Can I think about that?” said Deuce.

  He returned to Wally.

  “Rochus is a rabbit. So don’t let him run. Hit it hard up the middle. Make him try to deal with your power.”

  “Got it.”

  “Oh, wait, that’s your game anyway.”

  “Thank you, son.”

  “Yeah. And don’t worry. You’ve got this. Anyway, I’ve got a paying gig in the city. An hour of close-up. And I need to hoof. I get to pickpocket a banker.”

  “Nice reversal.”

  “Yeah, it’s like opposites day. And he pays me. It’ll definitely be worth the trip if no one asks me about Harry Potter, Criss Angel or how to saw a woman in half.”

  “Price of stardom, I guess,” said Wally.

  “Or at least the two hundred-fifty,” said Deuce.

  “More than Potter ever got,” said Wally.

  “Yeah, Potter. You know, none of that Hogwarts crap is really that amazing if you actually have magic powers. It’s like, oh, he put one foot in front of the other. Try loading a bowling ball under a hat with six half-drunk newlyweds sitting two feet away at your closeup table. That’s amazing! Or some days, just try to get the check afterward.”

  Wally laughed.

  Deuce took on a concerned, parental look. “So, anyway, remember, manage your energy, wear sunscreen and if they happen to broadcast you, I’ll Deever it. Break a stringjob, dad.”

  “Thanks, Deuce. Break a bunny.”

  “You know I will. Maybe even split a hare.”