Christmas (Wild) Card

Howdy. Well, I got the fake tree - my first one, ever - set up in the living room last night. It was quick and easy, given that the thing has 650 pre-strung colored lights. Cowboy Luke kept bucking off the sandman, so when the tree was up Lisa and I doused the lights at 10 PM and I carried Luke out to the living room to see the tree. For the first time, he seemed overtaken by the wonder we associate with Christmas, and that we all lose, soon enough. "Enjoy it while it lasts, cowpoke," I whispered. "You're living the best years of my life."

BTW, for those of you agonizing over the real vs. fake tree issue: the phony ones these days are tenfold more attractive and well made than before. In my case, I didn't want to kill two little pines, so the "real" tree is at the farm in game-rich Andes, awaiting decoration over the weekend.

This, combined with the tone of the posts over the weekend, reminds me that the season is officially upon us (for some reason, I resist the day-after-Thanksgiving start to the holiday season). So let's celebrate it with a somewhat structured On Topic/Off Topic approach. Each new post over coming days will contain an OT question or issue for general discussion, having to do with the holidays.  You can just throw-in on it.

I'm going to Bradenton tomorrow, and will post on that trip either late Wednesday or Thursday.  After that, we'll keep rolling  and see where the  mood of the day  (and season ) takes. I guess I'm thinking that TW should have the feel of a holiday party from now through Jan. 1, even though I have lots of tennis-related ideas kicking around in my head. They'll be flowing, too.

So here's our first holiday OT question: What's the worst present you ever got, and who did you get it from?  I don't have to think hard on this one. I have an older sister, Judy, who's addicted to yard/junk/thrift/can't-even-move-this-stuff-on-Ebay sales. One year, one of a number of the presents that gush forth from that pipeline was a paperweight made out of some dark, dimpled, pewter-like heavy metal, bearing the obscure seal of something like: The United Amalgamated Brotherhood of Lag Bolt and Ball Bearing Manufacturers.

I kid you not.

And when she saw the look on my face as I hefted this object, read the inscription, and briefly entertained the pleasant fantasy of braining her with it, she beamed contentedly and purred:  I knew you would be surprised!

My On-Topic item for today is something I've been thinking about since I quickly checked the blog last night, and saw that Lucy weighed in with a blast against wild cards. I posted a reply and we had  a bi-podal (note: that's not a misspelling!) meeting of the minds and exchanged a cyber-high five (it's part of the chica's training regimen for the Australian Open). I kept thinking about the issue, though, and ended up writing about it as the top priority of my "Three Rules Tennis  Need to Tweak" post over at ESPN (you'll find it here, but not for a little while yet). The other ones have to do with Port-a-Johns and procrastination.

Let me elaborate on my quick thoughts.

If the Indianapolis 500 featured a wild card policy, some joker would have a suggestion that goes something like this: Hey, there's this kid down in Terre Haute, just 17, and he's got one of those little Honda Civics with the lo-profile tires, the blue light under the gas tank, and it makes this weird buzzing sound, like it's being powered by human gas. Why don't we give him the wild card start, him being local and all. . ."

Or imagine Bill Parcells, calling Jimmy Jones to say, We got the Eagles on Sunday, and I'm thinking of starting that kid from Michael Irvin High School - yeah, the one who's signed a letter of intent with Notre Dame - instead of Romo. Heck of a nice kid. Got a great arm and hey - he can use the experience on the big stage.

Sounds absurd, but that's the kind of sentiment driving the dispensation of wild cards these days. They go to junior player for all kinds of reasons, including pressure from the agents of those players, the desire to drum up press and local fan interest, some clandestine (or transparent) deal between two or more parties in the nexus of national associations, agents, coaches, and TDs -  the whole byzantine works.

The wild card concept was born from the desire to give tournament directors a way to recruit "added value" players - like high-profile but struggling veterans (largely, Grand Slam champs or strong contenders - see "P" for Philippoussis or "I" for Ivanisevic), as well as players who have special local appeal. Who can forget the way the Top 20 Hungarian player Balazs Taroczy kept winning at Hilversum, year after year, giving him amusing if somewhat bizarre cult status at that event?

But the wild card almost immediately de-evolved into a bargaining chip, used by agents and TDs for trying to establish and build relationships with promising Junior players, deliver payback for services rendered, or to throw a bone to squeaky wheels like Richard Washington (father of former Wimbledon runner-up Mal). Hence the nickname "Wild Card Washington", for Mal's brother, the journeyman Mashiska Washington.

Of the eight wild cards awarded at the U.S. Open this year, only one went to a name player and auslander (Philippoussis, whose wild card turned into the be a deuce of clubs when he drew Rafael Nadal).

The rest went to American kids, but only two of them won matches; Sam Querrey and Ryan Sweeting (he carved out a win over tennis's lost soul, Guillermo Coria), and neither survived to the third round.

So let me ask you this: is it somehow more valuable for the U.S.'s Alex Kuznetsov to get waxed by Tommy Haas in the first round of the U.S. Open, instead of, oh, in the third-round of qualifying? Is that going put Kuznetsov on the fast track to tennis stardom?

But here's the worst thing about wild cards, given the degree to which they are about as likely to pay off in any meaningful way as lottery tickets. Those eight wild cards represent over 6 per cent of the draw. Now, add the 16 "qualifying" slots, and you've just accounted for 18.75 per cent of the field. This also means that, in a year when all the eligible players have entered the U.S. Open, the cut-off for automatic entry in the draw is an ATP ranking of 104. So how would you feel if you were the No. 105 player in the world, dying for a shot at breaking into the Top 100 (as well as carting off Grand Slam-grade prize money)? You've earned your ranking, but you have to enter the qualifying event because some coach, agent, parent or official has prevailed upon the USTA to grant his player a wild card. It stinks.

Tennis prides itself on being a meritocracy; the wild card system has been an affront to the idea. I'd like to think that if I were a coach, one of my positions (and motivational tools) would be a policy against my protege accepting a wild card. Let him earn his way in - and let those who have earned a right to play have at it.