[This is Part 1 of reigning TennisWorld poet laureate Ray Stonada's personal Best Road Trip in Sports. My editing consisted of deleting exactly one word. 'Nuf said. Use it as a warm up for today's action from New Haven and Queens. I'll be posting from the BJKNTC later. . . Pete]
It's eight-fifteen on a summery Thursday morning in July and I'm heading out of a quiet, cool New York City. I'm heading out on a two-week road trip and my intention is to play tennis every single day, while traveling the country visiting family. It's my own version of The Best Road Trip in Sports. Like many addicts, I don't get to indulge myself often enough, so my idea of a vacation is playing tennis as often as humanly possible. The trip is bookended by two weekend club tournaments in the little town in West Virginia where my dad lives, so I'll also have a chance to compete.
The trip begins, as so my trips south do, by retracing the opening montage of The Sopranos: tunneling under the Hudson, crossing the Hackensack, and skirting the comforting (to me) industrial landscape of northern New Jersey. My trusty if dilapidated Jeep has no front bumper and no air-conditioning, and its brakes aren't the best, but it's running just fine. In the back I'm carrying a tennis bag with, in addition to the usual array of shoes, grips, and dampeners, a new racquet. (Actually, it's only new to me: it's used.) On the advice of TW posters Dunlop and Jay, I've picked up a heavier frame with a smaller head, which happens to be the one Marat Safin endorses. Counterintuitive though this upgrade might sound, it's helped my consistency, accuracy and touch, and I can't wait to play matches with it.
A couple of hundred miles later, I've crossed the great, undammed Delaware, which reminds me of John McPhee and his beloved shad, which in turn makes me hungry. Luckily, a gas-food-lodging sign outside Baltimore alerts me to the presence of a certain Southern chicken sandwich joint I love, which means two things: I've crossed the Mason-Dixon, and I have to stop. Lunch over, I pick up some tube socks from a giant sports store, and I take the opportunity to check out their tennis section. It's anemic. Not a single "real" racquet - they only have the thirty dollar outlet-store versions. No Babolat gear at all - because no fan would want to try out Andy Roddick or Rafael Nadal's racquet, right? Basically, there's no sense that anyone in the place knows the game. Meanwhile, golf has its own spacious store within the store, with endless supplies and technical equipment choices, and giant posters of Federer's buddy, uh, you know, Lion Irons. Gah.
Whatever. Tennis's place in American big box sports emporiums isn't my problem. It's just confusing because it's so obvious to me that tennis is the best sport there is. Anyway, I have my own tournament to get ready for: one sponsored not by JP Morgan or Sony Ericsson but by the Rotary Club of Parkersburg, WV. So I stop and hit some serves at a little park where they have surprisingly nice tennis courts in U.S. Open blue. I'm in rural Maryland, where Nascar bars and undulating fields meet sprouting suburban cul-de-sacs. The concerns of the pro game and its popularity seem miles away, or at least forty miles, where John Isner is making a splash in Washington D.C. with his 140 mph serves.
I drive on into West Virginia, past a long, lonely stretch of route 50 where there are only looming, forested hills. Pulling in to his house about seven, I mention to my dad, who's sixty but still runs down almost everything I hit, that it seems there's enough light to hit some balls at a nearby court. We proceed to play a quick set, and I'm frustrated with my second serve (totally unique problem, I know), which gets me to thinking: why am I so frustrated? Why am I so addicted to playing tennis and trying to improve? No money, no career advancement, no tangible thing rides on it. I'm no Isner.
Well, for one thing, there's my pride. But I also think it's because, at thirty-two, I still AM improving. Unlike a lot of burnt-out ex-college or junior players, who can never be as good as they already were, I'm blessed to be still learning all kinds of things. I finally kick in a few decent serves. Things are good.
- Ray Stonada