A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again (2 page)

To your average outsider, Central Illinois looks ideal for sports. The ground, seen from the air, strongly suggests a board
game: anally precise squares of dun or khaki cropland all cut and divided by plumb-straight tar roads (in all farmland, roads
still seem more like impediments than avenues). In winter, the terrain always looks like Mannington bathroom tile, white quadrangles
where bare (snow), black where trees and scrub have shaken free in the wind. From planes, it always looks to me like Monopoly
or Life, or a lab maze for rats; then, from ground level, the arrayed fields of feed corn or soybeans, fields furrowed into
lines as straight as only an Allis Chalmers and sextant can cut them, look laned like sprint tracks or Olympic pools, hashmarked
for serious ball, replete with the angles and alleys of serious tennis. My part of the Midwest always looks laid down special,
as if planned.

The terrain’s strengths are also its weaknesses. Because the land seems so even, designers of clubs and parks rarely bother
to roll it flat before laying the asphalt for tennis courts. The result is usually a slight list that only a player who spends
a lot of time on the courts will notice. Because tennis courts are for sun- and eye-reasons always laid lengthwise north-south,
and because the land in Central Illinois rises very gently as one moves east toward Indiana and the subtle geologic summit
that sends rivers doubled back against their own feeders somewhere in the east of that state, the court’s forehand half, for
a rightie facing north, always seems physically uphill from the backhand—at a tournament in Richmond IN, just over the Ohio
line, I noticed the tilt was reversed. The same soil that’s so full of humus farmers have to be bought off to keep markets
unflooded keeps clay courts chocked with jimson and thistle and volunteer corn, and it splits asphalt courts open with the
upward pressure of broadleaf weeds whose pioneer-stock seeds are unthwarted by a half-inch cover of sealant and stone. So
that all but the very best maintained courts in the most affluent Illinois districts are their own little rural landscapes,
with tufts and cracks and underground-seepage puddles being part of the lay that one plays. A court’s cracks always seem to
start off to the side of the service box and meander in and back toward the service line. Foliated in pockets, the black cracks,
especially against the forest green that contrasts with the barn red of the space outside the lines to signify fair territory,
give the courts the eerie look of well-rivered sections of Illinois, seen from back aloft.

A tennis court, 78' × 27', looks, from above, with its slender rectangles of doubles alleys flanking its whole length, like
a cardboard carton with flaps folded back. The net, 3.5 feet high at the posts, divides the court widthwise in half; the service
lines divide each half again into backcourt and fore-. In the two forecourts, lines that run from the base of the net’s center
to the service lines divide them into 21' × 13.5' service boxes. The sharply precise divisions and boundaries, together with
the fact that—wind and your more exotic-type spins aside—balls can be made to travel in straight lines only, make textbook
tennis plane geometry. It is billiards with balls that won’t hold still. It is chess on the run. It is to artillery and airstrikes
what football is to infantry and attrition.

Tennis-wise, I had two preternatural gifts to compensate for not much physical talent. Make that three. The first was that
I always sweated so much that I stayed fairly ventilated in all weathers. Oversweating seems an ambivalent blessing, and it
didn’t exactly do wonders for my social life in high school, but it meant I could play for hours on a Turkish-bath July day
and not flag a bit so long as I drank water and ate salty stuff between matches. I always looked like a drowned man by about
game four, but I didn’t cramp, vomit, or pass out, unlike the gleaming Peoria kids whose hair never even lost its part right
up until their eyes rolled up in their heads and they pitched forward onto the shimmering concrete. A bigger asset still was
that I was extremely comfortable inside straight lines. None of the odd geometric claustrophobia that turns some gifted juniors
into skittish zoo animals after a while. I found I felt best physically enwebbed in sharp angles, acute bisections, shaved
corners. This was environmental. Philo, Illinois, is a cockeyed grid: nine north-south streets against six northeast-southwest,
fifty-one gorgeous slanted-cruciform corners (the east and west intersection-angles’ tangents could be evaluated integrally
in terms of their secants!) around a three-intersection central town common with a tank whose nozzle pointed northwest at
Urbana, plus a frozen native son, felled on the Salerno beachhead, whose bronze hand pointed true north. In the late morning,
the Salerno guy’s statue had a squat black shadow-arm against grass dense enough to putt on; in the evening the sun galvanized
his left profile and cast his arm’s accusing shadow out to the right, bent at the angle of a stick in a pond. At college it
suddenly occurred to me during a quiz that the differential between the direction the statue’s hand pointed and the arc of
its shadow’s rotation was first-order. Anyway, most of my memories of childhood—whether of furrowed acreage, or of a harvester’s
sentry duty along RR104W, or of the play of sharp shadows against the Legion Hall softball field’s dusk—I could now reconstruct
on demand with an edge and protractor.

I liked the sharp intercourse of straight lines more than the other kids I grew up with. I think this is because they were
natives, whereas I was an infantile transplant from Ithaca, where my dad had Ph.D.’d. So I’d known, even horizontally and semiconsciously
as a baby, something different, the tall hills and serpentine one-ways of upstate NY. I’m pretty sure I kept the amorphous
mush of curves and swells as a contrasting backlight somewhere down in the lizardy part of my brain, because the Philo children
I fought and played with, kids who knew and had known nothing else, saw nothing stark or new-worldish in the township’s planar
layout, prized nothing crisp. (Except why do I think it significant that so many of them wound up in the military, performing
smart right-faces in razor-creased dress blues?)

Unless you’re one of those rare mutant virtuosos of raw force, you’ll find that competitive tennis, like money pool, requires
geometric thinking, the ability to calculate not merely your own angles but the angles of response to your angles. Because
the expansion of response-possibilities is quadratic, you are required to think
n
shots ahead, where
n
is a hyperbolic function limited by the sinh of opponent’s talent and the cosh of the number of shots in the rally so far
(roughly). I was good at this. What made me for a while near-great was that I could also admit the differential complication
of wind into my calculations; I could think and play octacally. For the wind put curves in the lines and transformed the game
into 3-space. Wind did massive damage to many Central Illinois junior players, particularly in the period from April to July
when it needed lithium badly, tending to gust without pattern, swirl and backtrack and die and rise, sometimes blowing in
one direction at court level and in another altogether ten feet overhead. The precision in thinking required one to induct
trends in percentage, thrust, and retaliatory angle—precision our guy and the other townships’ volunteer coaches were good
at abstracting about with chalk and board, attaching a pupil’s leg to the fence with clothesline to restrict his arc of movement
in practice, placing laundry baskets in different corners and making us sink ball after ball, taking masking tape and laying
down Chinese boxes within the court’s own boxes for drills and wind sprints—all this theoretical prep went out the window
when sneakers hit actual court in a tournament. The best-planned, best-hit ball often just blew out of bounds, was the basic
unlyrical problem. It drove some kids near-mad with the caprice and unfairness of it all, and on real windy days these kids,
usually with talent out the bazoo, would have their first apoplectic racket-throwing tantrum in about the match’s third game
and lapse into a kind of sullen coma by the end of the first set, now bitterly
expecting
to get screwed over by wind, net, tape, sun. I, who was affectionately known as Slug because I was such a lazy turd in practice,
located my biggest tennis asset in a weird robotic detachment from whatever unfairnesses of wind and weather I couldn’t plan
for. I couldn’t begin to tell you how many tournament matches I won between the ages of twelve and fifteen against bigger,
faster, more coordinated, and better-coached opponents simply by hitting balls unimaginatively back down the middle of the
court in schizophrenic gales, letting the other kid play with more verve and panache, waiting for enough of his ambitious
balls aimed near the lines to curve or slide via wind outside the green court and white stripe into the raw red territory
that won me yet another ugly point. It wasn’t pretty or fun to watch, and even with the Illinois wind I never could have won
whole matches this way had the opponent not eventually had his small nervous breakdown, buckling under the obvious injustice
of losing to a shallow-chested “pusher” because of the shitty rural courts and rotten wind that rewarded cautious automatism
instead of verve and panache. I was an unpopular player, with good reason. But to say that I did not use verve or imagination
was untrue. Acceptance is its own verve, and it takes imagination for a player to like wind, and I liked wind; or rather I
at least felt the wind had some basic right to be there, and found it sort of interesting, and was willing to expand my logistical
territory to countenace the devastating effect a 15- to 30-mph stutter-breeze swirling southwest to east would have on my
best calculations as to how ambitiously to respond to Joe Perfecthair’s topspin drive into my backhand corner.

The Illinois combination of pocked courts, sickening damp, and wind required and rewarded an almost Zen-like acceptance of
things as they actually were, on-court. I won a lot. At twelve, I began getting entry to tournaments beyond Philo and Champaign
and Danville. I was driven by my parents or by the folks of Gil Antitoi, son of a Canadian-history professor from Urbana,
to events like the Central Illinois Open in Decatur, a town built and owned by the A. E. Staley processing concern and so
awash in the stink of roasting corn that kids would play with bandannas tied over their mouths and noses; like the Western
Closed Qualifier on the ISU campus in Normal; like the McDonald’s Junior Open in the serious corn town of Galesburg, way out
west by the River; like the Prairie State Open in Pekin, insurance hub and home of Caterpillar Tractor; like the Midwest Junior
Clay Courts at a chichi private club in Peoria’s pale version of Scarsdale.

Over the next four summers I got to see way more of the state than is normal or healthy, albeit most of this seeing was a
blur of travel and crops, looking between nod-outs at sunrises abrupt and terribly candent over the crease between fields
and sky (plus you could see any town you were aimed at the very moment it came around the earth’s curve, and the only part
of Proust that really moved me in college was the early description of the kid’s geometric relation to the distant church
spire at Combray), riding in station wagons’ backseats through Saturday dawns and Sunday sunsets. I got steadily better; Antitoi,
unfairly assisted by an early puberty, got radically better.

By the time we were fourteen, Gil Antitoi and I were the Central Illinois cream of our age bracket, usually seeded one and
two at area tournaments, able to beat all but a couple of even the kids from the Chicago suburbs who, together with a contingent
from Grosse Pointe MI, usually dominated the Western regional rankings. That summer the best fourteen-year-old in the nation
was a Chicago kid, Bruce Brescia (whose penchant for floppy white tennis hats, low socks with bunnytails at the heel, and
lurid pastel sweater vests testified to proclivities that wouldn’t dawn on me for several more years), but Brescia and his
henchman, Mark Mees of Zanesville OH, never bothered to play anything but the Midwestern Clays and some indoor events in Cook
County, being too busy jetting off to like the Pacific Hardcourts in Ventura and Junior Wimbledon and all that. I played Brescia
just once, in the quarters of an indoor thing at the Rosemont Horizon in 1977, and the results were not pretty. Antitoi actually
got a set off Mees in the national Qualifiers one year. Neither Brescia nor Mees ever turned pro; I don’t know what happened
to either of them after eighteen.

Antitoi and I ranged over the exact same competitive territory; he was my friend and foe and bane. Though I’d started playing
two years before he, he was bigger, quicker, and basically better than I by about age thirteen, and I was soon losing to him
in the finals of just about every tournament I played. So different were our appearances and approaches and general gestalts
that we had something of an epic rivalry from ’74 through ’77. I had gotten so prescient at using stats, surface, sun, gusts,
and a kind of stoic cheer that I was regarded as a physical savant, a medicine boy of wind and heat, and could play just forever,
sending back moonballs baroque with spin. Antitoi, uncomplicated from the get-go, hit the everliving shit out of every round
object that came within his ambit, aiming always for one of two backcourt corners. He was a Slugger; I was a Slug. When he
was “on,” i.e. having a good day, he varnished the court with me. When he wasn’t at his best (and the countless hours I and
David Saboe from Bloomington and Kirk Riehagen and Steve Cassil of Danville spent in meditation and seminar on just what variables
of diet, sleep, romance, car ride, and even sock-color factored into the equation of Antitoi’s mood and level day to day),
he and I had great matches, real marathon wind-suckers. Of eleven finals we played in 1974, I won two.

Midwest junior tennis was also my initiation into true adult sadness. I had developed a sort of hubris about my Taoistic ability
to control via noncontrol. I’d established a private religion of wind. I even liked to bike. Awfully few people in Philo bike,
for obvious wind reasons, but I’d found a way to sort of tack back and forth against a stiff current, holding some wide book
out at my side at about 120° to my angle of thrust—Bayne and Pugh’s
The Art of the Engineer
and Cheiro’s
Language of the Hand
proved to be the best airfoils—so that through imagination and verve and stoic cheer I could not just neutralize but use
an in-your-face gale for biking. Similarly, by thirteen I’d found a way not just to accommodate but to
employ
the heavy summer winds in matches. No longer just mooning the ball down the center to allow plenty of margin for error and
swerve, I was now able to use the currents kind of the way a pitcher uses spit. I could hit curves way out into cross-breezes
that’d drop the ball just fair; I had a special wind-serve that had so much spin the ball turned oval in the air and curved
left to right like a smart slider and then reversed its arc on the bounce. I’d developed the same sort of autonomie feel for
what the wind would do to the ball that a standard-trans driver has for how to shift. As a junior tennis player, I was for
a time a citizen of the concrete physical world in a way the other boys weren’t, I felt. And I felt betrayed at around fourteen
when so many of these single-minded flailing boys became abruptly mannish and tall, with sudden sprays of hair on their thighs
and wisps on their lips and ropy arteries on their forearms. My fifteenth summer, kids I’d been beating easily the year before
all of a sudden seemed overpowering. I lost in two semifinals, at Pekin and Springfield in’77, of events I’d beaten Antitoi
in the finals of in ’76. My dad just about brought me to my knees after the Springfield loss to some kid from the Quad Cities
when he said, trying to console me, that it had looked like a boy playing a man out there. And the other boys sensed something
up with me, too, smelled some breakdown in the odd détente I’d had with the elements: my ability to accommodate and fashion
the exterior was being undercut by the malfunction of some internal alarm clock I didn’t understand.