Thoughts about Tennis Tradition...

[tennis_chiro]

I couldn't resist

tradi’tion n. body of beliefs, facts, etc., handed down to generation to generation without being reduced to writing; the process of handing down

What does it mean to be Quixotic...in today's world? One possibility is the example of a man who believes in something long after there is no longer a single shred of evidence that it ever existed in the first place...leaving him alone and isolated in his beliefs and and making him appear to be an apparent fool to others.

Like the boy who believes in Santa Claus long after all of his classmates have found out the "truth"...and when his mother tells him the news that there is no such thing as a Santa Claus, he cries...but goes on believing anyways...somehow.

To be Quixotic means that the world will shun you because conventional wisdom has it that you live in a fantasy world where conventional wisdom is actually no wisdom at all...because it is "virtual morality" wrapped up in "virtual reality"...it is a world where there is no past, there is only now. But make no mistake readers...this is still about tennis.

Don Quixote comes up now and again in our little kingdom here...the tennisplayer forum. Our dear bottle, whom I have come to know as a Great American because he has the courage to speak the truth to power, is the scholarly type and then some, who has taught and devoted much of his life to the ideas and metaphors contained in Cervante's novel written God knows when. Phil has his own copy of "Don Quixote" embedded in this thread somewhere and Don, the tennis_chiro, has referred to Don Quixote as well...I think it was to geoffwilliams that he quoted lyrics from a song, "To Dream the Impossible Dream". It's a long book and it's not an easy read so many of you have not had the chance to read the book. In such a case, here are the lyrics to the song "Don Quixote" by Gordon Lightfoot which will suffice for now...just in case you have not read the book. Listen to the song if you get the chance.

Don Quixote-Gordon Lightfoot

Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek

Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a battered book into his hand
Standing like a prophet bold
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout not more

I have come o’er moor and mountain
Like the hawk upon the wing
I was once a shining knight
Who was the guardian of a king
I have searched the whole world over
Looking for a place to sleep
I have seen the strong survive
And I have seen the lean grown weak

See the children of the earth
Who wake to find the table bare
See the gentry in the country
Riding off to take the air

Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a rusty sword into his hand
Then striking up a knightly pose
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more

See the jailor with his key
Who locks away all trace of sin
See the judge upon the bench
Who tries the case as best he can
See the wise and wicked ones
Who feed upon life’s sacred fire
See the soldier with his gun
Who must be dead to be admired

See the man who tips the needle
See the man who buys and sells
See the man who puts the collar
On the ones who dare not tell
See the drunkard in the tavern
Stemming gold to make ends meet
See the youth in ghetto black
Condemned to life upon the street

Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a tarnished cross into his hand
Then standing like a preacher now
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Then in a blaze of tangled hooves
He gallops off across the dusty plain
In vain to search again
Where no one will hear

Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek

In the end, he ages and dies of course. His quest is left up to us. Every time I read about his death...I cry for the Quixotic.

And now...we head into the grass court season of 2011, "The Championships" are upon us once again...to Wimbledon where the grass is greener, or so we are led to believe.

It's a great song, but I think we need to hear Gordon Lightfoot deliver it. The following clips have always remained in my head since the first time I saw them.

Musically, the Brian Stokes Mitchell version is perhaps a little better, but I really like the movie scene with Peter O'Toole, especially when he gets off his death bed.

Movie version with Peter O'Toole and Sophia Loren (who's the redhead?)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RfHnzYEHAow

But if you just want the clear song, the Brian Stokes Mitchell version is awfully good:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bVlAtMZAzeY&feature=related

Thanks for reminding me of this great song. And also the great thought. I'll have to get it on my iPod! (Problem is I'll probably go off and do something stupid...again!)

Never give in!!!
don

[don_budge]

Don Quixote...

tradi’tion n. body of beliefs, facts, etc., handed down to generation to generation without being reduced to writing; the process of handing down

What does it mean to be Quixotic...in today's world? One possibility is the example of a man who believes in something long after there is no longer a single shred of evidence that it ever existed in the first place...leaving him alone and isolated in his beliefs and and making him appear to be an apparent fool to others.

Like the boy who believes in Santa Claus long after all of his classmates have found out the "truth"...and when his mother tells him the news that there is no such thing as a Santa Claus, he cries...but goes on believing anyways...somehow.

To be Quixotic means that the world will shun you because conventional wisdom has it that you live in a fantasy world where conventional wisdom is actually no wisdom at all...because it is "virtual morality" wrapped up in "virtual reality"...it is a world where there is no past, there is only now. But make no mistake readers...this is still about tennis.

Don Quixote comes up now and again in our little kingdom here...the tennisplayer forum. Our dear bottle, whom I have come to know as a Great American because he has the courage to speak the truth to power, is the scholarly type and then some, who has taught and devoted much of his life to the ideas and metaphors contained in Cervante's novel written God knows when. Phil has his own copy of "Don Quixote" embedded in this thread somewhere and Don, the tennis_chiro, has referred to Don Quixote as well...I think it was to geoffwilliams that he quoted lyrics from a song, "The Impossible Dream". It's a long book and it's not an easy read so many of you have not had the chance to read the book. In such a case, here are the lyrics to the song "Don Quixote" by Gordon Lightfoot which will suffice for now...just in case you have not read the book. Listen to the song if you get the chance.

Don Quixote-Gordon Lightfoot

Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek

Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a battered book into his hand
Standing like a prophet bold
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout not more

I have come o’er moor and mountain
Like the hawk upon the wing
I was once a shining knight
Who was the guardian of a king
I have searched the whole world over
Looking for a place to sleep
I have seen the strong survive
And I have seen the lean grown weak

See the children of the earth
Who wake to find the table bare
See the gentry in the country
Riding off to take the air

Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a rusty sword into his hand
Then striking up a knightly pose
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more

See the jailor with his key
Who locks away all trace of sin
See the judge upon the bench
Who tries the case as best he can
See the wise and wicked ones
Who feed upon life’s sacred fire
See the soldier with his gun
Who must be dead to be admired

See the man who tips the needle
See the man who buys and sells
See the man who puts the collar
On the ones who dare not tell
See the drunkard in the tavern
Stemming gold to make ends meet
See the youth in ghetto black
Condemned to life upon the street

Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a tarnished cross into his hand
Then standing like a preacher now
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Then in a blaze of tangled hooves
He gallops off across the dusty plain
In vain to search again
Where no one will hear

Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek

In the end, he ages and dies of course. His quest is left up to us. Every time I read about his death...I cry for the Quixotic.

And now...we head into the grass court season of 2011, "The Championships" are upon us once again...to Wimbledon where the grass is greener, or so we are led to believe.

[don_budge]

1971...

Dear Readers...

I thank you for your indulgence. For my part...I don’t think of it as self-indulgence. I think of it as doing my part. My responsibility to society...to our youth, the next generation. I am passing it down, the traditions that is. The Indians still do this, as much as their culture has been decimated...it is their elder’s responsibility to the young. They still teach. The Indian elders do. I think it is even difficult in their society...to get the young to listen. In these days...in modern times. So much tradition has been lost.

But I digress. I meander. That is why I express my appreciation to you. I sincerely mean it. It’s not easy following the thoughts of another. We all have our own thoughts, our own problems, our own stories to tell. It’s not like anyones story is more important than the next. I know mine isn’t. It’s only that I have elected to tell my side...of the story. I read this forum. I read everything on it. If any of you has something to say, I promise you...I am going to read it. It’s easy. We don’t even have to look each other in the eye. I could be making all of this up. But I am not. Honest.

Today...June 6, is Sweden's National Day. It isn't such a traditional holiday because it hasn't been around for very long as a public holiday...only several years, since 2005 as a matter of fact. It isn't a day steeped in tradition, it used to be called Swedish Flag Day. The Swedish flag itself is rather unassuming. Rather modest...like the people. Supposedly though, one day in history some centuries ago...the reigning Swedish king was away at war and one morning before a big important battle, the sun appeared on a cloudless day, which the king interpreted as a favorable omen to himself...luckily for him, it was a good day for the king...the bad guys were defeated. The legend for the flag was thusly born. It doesn't seem like the Swedes do a lot of special things to celebrate the day. It is a day off from work and perhaps some Swedes will do a bit of barbecuing. Sweden has not taken part in any of the wars of the modern era, which may explain the Swedes’ somewhat guarded attitude towards celebrating a national day. They are proud of their country but they don’t seem to feel any great need to show it. The people don't feel the need to demonstrate a lot of patriotism. Mostly small towns, small parades or small fireworks, no great bombs bursting in air, nothing like that. Here in the country I haven't heard a peep. Björn Borg wasn't just being quiet and modest, he was being traditionally Swedish.

Yesterday, before the heavyweight title match at Roland Garros, we at the little Skultorp Tennis Club in the middle of Sweden had our final match in our clay court series play. We came out on the losing end again, 0-4. Our opponents had a huge advantage in experience but I was neverless proud of my guys. They are playing “up” this year in the mens division. We ended up 0-3 and one tie for a record...as a team.

Olof lost to his opponent 6-0, 6-4. The young man he played against was really overweight. Afterwards, I told him he lost to a fat kid. Sorry about the language but I was trying to make a point. His opponent was so obviously overweight that right from the get go, Olof should of been trying to move him all over the court. It turns out that this guy was a really good player when he was a few years younger but he has a bit of a MacDonald’s Jones, some eating issues, thus the extra kilos. Philip lost at the third singles 6-2, 6-2, against an opponent that I thought looked the strongest of the three singles players and as it turned out I was correct. At one point, some five years ago this guy was ranked in the top five in Sweden but he has been rehabilitating from some injury problems. Gustav made the best showing at the second singles, losing 6-4 7-5. He is showing some signs of playing with “my head” and making better decisions regarding his shot selection and tactics. I thought it was nice that all three of my guys chose to wear white tennis clothes for their match. I am pretty sure they did it out of respect for me...they know how I am. Our opponents had some rather nice shirts on with the Roland Garros logo on them. It turns out that they made the trip last year to the French Open. I may have to consider this next year also. I wonder if I could get a journalist pass with TennisPlayer? To dream the impossible dream...dreaming’s for free after all.

I had really interesting conversations with Olof and Gustav. I sort of left it brief with Philip...with a comment of “nice match”. He didn’t show for practice on Saturday and my feelings are if he doesn’t care enough to show up, he doesn’t get as much attention from me. I am not sure how much of an effect this approach has on him...virtually none I suspect, he is the musician, the “artist”...but my tactic is to use my attention as a motivating instrument to get the guys to show more interest. With Olof, it is a bit different...all students are different, aren’t they...but with him, I asked him a question that I already knew the answer to. I asked him, “How do you feel?” and he replied that he was not so happy with himself. He really opened the door for me to respond and of course I took the liberty of entering with guns blazing and a bunch of food for thought.

First I told him...”why would you feel so bad, you didn’t make any extraordinary efforts for this match, you haven’t made any huge investments in your tennis...don’t worry, I tell him, you are going to Gothenburg for college next year and you can forget about this match, you can forget about tennis...you missed a practice on Tuesday...why would you feel bad about a match today when in reality you don’t care enough to go the extra mile and train in the tennis mode...on the other hand, I tell him...if you had done a bit of extra training in the days leading up to the match perhaps you would of been mentally prepared to do what you had to do, beginning with the first point of the match...but you did not play Tuesday, Thursday or Friday, how can you expect to be ready, you lost your first set 6-0. You started to come around in the second, but it was too late. You weren’t ready to do what needed to be done.”. He looked at me a bit curiously...did I get through to him? He knows I care very much about him and his plans. My goal is to show him that he has options, and that he, in the end, like all of us, is the captain of his ship. I would like to see him put all of his chips in one basket...in his tennis game for a couple of years. I believe that the training that it takes to play competitive tennis is some of the best training in the world for life. It makes a man of the boy. It can make a philosopher, a scientist, an artist...of the man. Olof has shown some more interest in the last eight months or so and he told me at one point in our conversation that he hasn’t made up his mind one hundred percent about his plans for next year. I looked at him a bit curiously.

Next up Gustav. This kid is a coach’s dream. He is a parent’s dream. If he should ever make the limelight, he is going to be the girl’s dream. Gustav is a great student, he gets the highest marks in every subject. As a tennis student he is really coachable and some of the conversations we have on technique and tactics exceed my expectations. He has an insatiable curiosity about tennis history and it’s tradition as well. He is going to be a great student of the game in every sense...I wonder where he gets this from. He acts like a tennis player. Hmmm.

We talk of tactics. We talk of technique. We talk of everything under the sun...tennis wise that is. He idolizes Federer...what a surprise, eh? But I always caution him to be Gustav...in the end that is who he will be...it is our fate to be ourselves and nobody else. Personally speaking, I don’t have any heroes left, no role models. Well, maybe my father. Maybe Geronimo. But that is a rather serious digression. I beg your pardon. Let’s forget I even mentioned that. That was only a slip of the tongue. But anyways...the two of us have some great discussions about tennis. In English, of course. My Swedish is terrible. Speaking a foreign language is a nightmare. Fortunately for me, the parents of the kids in the program are equally as happy about the English trainingthat their kids get as they are about the tennis training....who knows, maybe even more so, in some cases. Gustav’s English is getting pretty darned good...he would consider going to America to play college tennis if the opportunity came up. I think. Gustav’s game is coming along. He is learning the all court game. It takes a full ten years to become a champion according to Tilden. One year to play the game, five years to become a tennis player and fully ten years to become a champion.

I joke with the guys about my own coachability. I think that in some ways I was a coaches nightmare. Poor Coach Stevens. Poor Coach Collins. Poor Coach Muldownay. I know that I am responsible for a few of those grey hairs on their collective heads. Sure, I had some talent, but those days were rebellious, tumultuous. In the summer of 1971, for instance, at seventeen years old, I hitchhiked clear across America to San Franciso before my senior year in high school. My first year in community college I quit the tennis team to play basketball with the black guys I met at school...I was hanging with the brothers playing basketball. I had a rather serious “basketball jones”. Not exactly putting my priorities into tennis, I’m afraid. But in my defense, perhaps I was a little confused...the next year I would get my number in the draft lottery. What were my chances of getting to participate in the Vietnam War first hand?

[don_budge]

The Wind...

tradi’tion n. body of beliefs, facts, etc., handed down to generation to generation without being reduced to writing; the process of handing down

The Wind...I listen to the wind, to the wind of my soul. -Cat Stevens

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTIxobZMzBg

Our doubles on Saturday was played in a lot of wind. It has been windy here ever since we opened up our two red clay courts three weeks ago. There are virtually no outdoor hard courts here in Sweden, so it was already May something before we could play outside. When the courts were ready. We would of been outside for about a month...if we had hard courts.

We were not even able to complete two sets in our two hours, because the games were taking so long. The service advantage was rendered pretty much neutral by the wind and some of the games seemed like they went back and forth from deuce to advantage...forever. There was a lot of scrambling for balls and many of the strokes were not pretty. It was comical at times. It’s tough to play pretty tennis in a swirling wind. Philip and I won the first, 6-4 and we were tied with Gustav and Olof at 5-5 when we had to hand over the courts to our young ladies 19 and under team.

Gustav looked a bit disappointed afterwards and I tried to joke with him a bit...I asked him if he was ready for a beer, he’s only sixteen, too young to drink. But his only remark was about the wind and the ugly play. The largest obstacle that Gustav must clear right now, in his quest to be a tennis player, is his belief that it is always going to be perfect...and pretty. He is young, naive, a perfectionist and an idealist. I remember when I was like that...wait a minute, a part of me still is. Give him a couple of years, though...a little seasoning. Maybe a broken heart or two. It's all part of growing up. That should cure him of his dilemma. Open his eyes. It is a huge philosophic conundrum as well as an intellectual battle that he is confronted with. My answer to him is...in golf, at the end of the day, they only ask you how many shots you took, they don’t ask you how you did it.

I tell him that if I had his body I would be playing Wimbledon next month. I tell him if he had my head he would be playing there next month. The difference between us is that I am not too proud to “win ugly”...ala Brad Gilbert. The difference between us is...I can hand over my head to him but I will never have the body again. The object of the game is to score and sometimes you have to resort to shots that are less than orthodox...whatever it takes...to win. I tell him a couple of stories.

Think of Don Budge hitting that last shot against von Cramm in his famous five set 1937 Davis Cup match...he never saw the last shot go in on the match point with everything riding on it, it's only a game of pitch and toss...he never saw the last shot go in as he found himself sprawled face down on the court after he hit it. Think of Connors in his five set victory over Panatta at the Open in 1978. I was sitting in the very top row in the stadium that day, it was a windy day and I was completely stoned on the tennis...what a shot that Connors produced when he needed it, a one hand backhand that somehow snuck by the graceful and imposing Italian at the net, who had anticipated Connors pass beautifully and had hit an incredible sharply angled cross court forehand volley. Somehow Connors anticipated, ran the ball down and hit the ball after it was virtually past him with one hand. One of the most incredible shots I have ever witnessed. With a T2000, no less. Look at the embrace after the match.

It’s better to be ugly and win than to be pretty and lose. Panatta was very pretty that day at the Open...beautiful in fact. He had everybody swooning...especially the ladies. His tennis was in a word...gorgeous! But he lost. In the wind, you just accept that the conditions are not perfect and try to make the wind your friend...work with it. You must work with it. You must use it with each and every shot. It’s just another factor...in your approach to hitting each shot. Connors had to quickly calculate the effect that the wind was going to have on that ball...as he hit it. It’s such an amazing game. Throw in a little wind and all of a sudden you are playing another game...Wind Tennis. You can fight it...but it won’t get you anywhere. Like struggling in quicksand. Don’t battle it...you won’t win. It's part of life.

Playing in the wind, you had better have your service motion and your toss under control. Playing in the wind it is paramount to get your feet and your body in position. You have to work a lot harder...for to keep your balance. You must be able to produce spin to control the ball when the wind is blowing everything out of control. With the wind you don't have to hit as hard, just use top spin and keep the ball deep, let the wind push your opponent back and when you get the opportunity hit flat and go under the wind or use underspin to approach the net when the wind blows your opponents shot short in your court...into the wind you can afford to hit a bit harder, try to keep the ball deep and when you get the chance, go under the wind and exploit the angles and drop shot with underspin, then throw a lob over your opponents head. Or...do whatever it is that has to be done. It’s cat and mouse time...I love the wind. The wind is my friend, she’s my girl. It’s the great equalizer...it can make for a real chess match on the tennis court.

It’s funny, Mats Wilander was talking about the wind on his “Game, Set and Mats” program after the French and he said somewhat the same thing. He’s always taking the words right out of my mouth.

Can Roger steal Djokovic’s thunder? Can he play Loki to Djokovic's Thor? The trickster vs. the thunder. Does he believe he can do it? That is the question...it is a question of the mental game now. It's a man's game. No room for the feint of heart. Confidence...and, sadly "string jobs". Is it possible that geoffwilliams is right? Obviously, he is...about some things.

Federer sent the “Purple Haze” of France, Monfils, packing...avenging his loss in the finals at the Paris Masters in November. I say "Purple Haze" because traditionally speaking I find Monfils the antithesis...because of the clothes, the howling, the chest thumping. Much like conservative America must of found Jimi Hendrix's interpretation of the "Star Spangled Banner" back in 1972...personally I loved that, though. But today it is all very acceptable...to act like that on the tennis court, I guess the fans find it amusing. It was at the Paris Masters that Djokovic last appeared to be human...it was the last time that the “meteoric” Djokovic lost...he lost to Michael Llodra.

Come on Roger, bow your neck!!! We traditionalists are pulling for you! One more time! Spare us Nadal vs. Djokovic.

[don_budge]

The Home Stretch...at Roland Garros!

tradi’tion n. body of beliefs, facts, etc., handed down to generation to generation without being reduced to writing; the process of handing down.

In honor of all those players who have ever participated in a tennis Grand Slam event. To all of those players who dreamed of participating, but never made it. To John Yandell. To all of the readers of TennisPlayer.net. To my students. To my fellow Americans. To everyone under the sun...it's only x degrees of separation that we are separated by.

Now we head down the home stretch...it's the final sixteen! The boys have all gone home. Only the men are left standing.

This poem never fails to get to me...no matter how many times I read it. Does anyone else feel the same way? My old coach introduced me to this, as he introduced me to Tilden, as he introduced me to Gonzales, as he introduced me to all of the old Aussies...way back when...thank you Sherman.

If...by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t give way to lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream-and not make dreams your master,
If you can think-and not make thoughts your air;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
to serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings-nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty second’s worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And-which is more- you’ll be a Man, my son!

[don_budge]

Separating the Men from the Boys...

tradi’tion n. body of beliefs, facts, etc., handed down to generation to generation without being reduced to writing; the process of handing down.


Have not heard back from my challenged friend, Francois, down in the Caribbean. My advise to her has not changed. Poor kid. She’s been sacked from her job. Something about drugs, gringos and backstabbing. The usual intrigue when you are a foreigner. I told her to be careful. If you are playing poker and look around the table...if you don’t see a sucker, you know you are it. All alone thousands of miles away from home. I know how she feels. It helps to be a little older and a little wiser. But not always. Sometimes it is a case of knowing too much...not being able to keep the mouth shut. To not go too far. To be careful, to be cautious. Yes...but back to my advise. What do you tell someone who is looking for the meaning of life? One thing that I always tell them is to play tennis and this is what I have been telling her from day one. Go to the tennis club and meet some nice people participating in a noble activity. You are never alone if you can play a decent game of tennis. At least you can pretend that you are not alone. If Springsteen could find the answer in an old parked car...why not find it on the tennis court? The only other things I told her was to seek the higher power, which is not going to happen as she is firmly convinced otherwise,but you never know, and I advised her to read Celine’s “Journey to the End of the Night”. Go figure. Good advice, like good coaching is tough to find these days.

Francois is a boxer. A woman boxer. That beats all, doesn’t it? I figured the footwork had to be there. And the fighter, too. But anyways, a boxer for a student is not such a bad place to start on the tennis court. I sometimes thought I would of made a good boxer, I throw right but play tennis left, golf right but batted left...both hands are somewhat ready. I can look at life from both sides. You know, the usual win a few, lose a few story. Maybe boxing would of knocked some sense into my noodle. Who knows? Do I sometimes sound confused? Boxing and tennis....both are one on one. Just one opponent, that is, if you don’t count yourself. It’s a fight...in the end. Trying to knock out the other. Or at least knock them off balance. No time to be afraid...you are either defending or on the attack. And neutralizing too. Winning the final point is the goal. No need for the Seals or anyone else for that matter. It’s just you. In the end, you are the captain of your ship.

I regretfully did not have time to watch any of the French Open yesterday. I wanted to see Federer... and only Roger. Gustav watched his match. He said it inspired him. Federer is capable of inspiring young men. He is a classic in a more traditional sense. The Swiss men are on a collision course. Too bad they had to meet in the round of sixteen. Luck of the draw...that is all. Wawrinka came back from down two sets to beat the French hometown favorite in the fifth. That will definitely make a man of him. That’s a long road to hoe. Tsonga’s no pushover. Not in front of that crowd. My wife likes Wawrinka. He’s her favorite. She likes Llodra, too. She doesn't know a whole lot about tennis. Roger will be ready though...he’s not quite ready to turn his ship to England to hone his grass game. He’s the one and only...these days.

Yesterday I was coaching. My three boys, or rather...my three young men, Gustav (16 years), Olof and Philip (both 19 years), are playing up this year in the men’s class. The first couple of matches they have had their asses sort of handed to them, but yesterday they showed signs of benefiting from some our work and training. If I am not the best coach in Europe I advertise that I am the best bang for the buck, at any rate. I go to their matches gratis...because these boys, or rather young men, are very important to me. It was a Friday afternoon/evening at the club. It rained cats and dogs so we went inside on the carpet. Green inside the court, orange on the outside of the lines.

Soon these young men are going to be out there on their own and I am teaching them to play tennis...and to think for themselves. I stress this to them all of the time. School is a place where they teach you some things about some subjects. You can’t deny it. Personally, I never liked school all that much. The occasional teacher perked my interest...inspired me. The tennis court is a place where you will actually learn something...about yourself and about life. If you can put two plus two together. If you put yourself in the fire enough times...you will learn a thing or two. These guys are learning. I’m there to teach them. It’s a tough lesson. It's a tough road to hoe. Winning and losing. Life's no picnic either. Not for most of us. First, you must open the door of being a loser. And then you enter...to the journey. I have done my share of losing.

Gustav won his match 6-1, 6-1. We sat together and talked as we watched Olof and Philip lose in almost identical fashion. Both lost approximately 6-4, 6-1, We talked about a lot of things. One subject was that as an American I see things differently than the Swedes. It is only natural. That is culture. Not that I am a typical American. You have to be careful to not give yourself too much credit when you are a foreigner, though. My ideas are...well you are getting your ideas. Swedes tend to play it a bit safe and they are winning, at least for the moment in some respects...and I am a bit more outside of the box, not that it makes me a gambler. They seem to be alright with me. Maybe more so than Americans. I never seem to quite fit in. I try to play the percentages. We talked about tennis and how it relates to life. We talked about strings and the spin of the ball. No biomechanics or slick presentations. Just basic stuff...man to man. We talked a little bit about forehand technique...how to get more spin on the ball, using Roger as the model. I am waking up to this reality. About the strings, that is.

So I had two scenarios going...my conversation with Gustav while watching the other two play their match. Brain equally divided down the middle. Perfect for me...not really, I am easily annoyed when I am distracted. They both played reasonably well for the first set but lost, then they got discouraged and basically folded and packed it in for the second set. Olof’s serve is improving. Philip needs to work on his concentration and competitive spirit. He’s a musician...trying to be an artist. A little scattered.

The lesson against the backboard is paying off for Olof, I hope. The motion is much better...very promising, in fact. I spent two hours with him on Wednesday when Gustav couldn’t make it to practice because of some school commitment. We focused on his one hand backhand, which we converted from two hands about eight months ago. I started in Budge mode. Then we will graduate to the modern backhand...more Swiss style. He actually came over the ball a few times in his match...it's a sign of confidence. The format for the match is three singles and one doubles and Philip and Olof were scheduled to play the doubles. Both Gustav and I were not sure if these two would have the stomach to play another match but they decided to have a go at it...so the four of us sequestered ourselves in my tiny office and I gave them the talk.

We sat there, Gustav was the only one left standing because there wasn’t a chair, but I had the other two squarely in my sights, looking directly in their eyes. You can feel the love. I talked to them about their first match. I was acting a little tough. Just a little...I don’t want to scare them, I just want them to act tough on the court. I told them how my old coach used to tell me that I must play five tournaments in a row to be match tough. I told them that they both should of beaten their opponents, but losing is a huge part of the lesson. We have only begun, I tell them. Sometimes it is about dealing with losing. Sometimes it is about dealing with winning.

The two masks of drama and life. Dealing with these two impostors...ala Kipling. One is not necessarily a loser if you learn something from the experience. To lose the first set is no reason to pack it up. The fun has just begun. The fight has just begun. Every point. Every point has a meaning. I told them of an old friend of mine, Mike Rose, who was just so much tougher after losing the first set. He really knew how to dig in. You were almost tempted to throw the first set to him in order to have a chance of winning the match. They are looking into my eyes, trying to find themselves...searching the eyes of an old warrior. They trust me. They know that I have been there, that I am there...for them. They went out and won their doubles 7-6, 7-6. A small victory. But not for two young men growing up to be men in Sweden. And an old coach from nowhere...who lives in the woods. Tomorrow I will tell them how proud of them I am. Every Saturday the four of us play doubles. It's a tradition...of sorts.

Now we are in the round of sixteen at the Open...the men are separating themselves from the boys. One set apiece for Del Potro and Djokovic...whose the man? A big break for Del Potro as now it is a two out of three set match...but it's a "different" Djokovic these days.

[don_budge]

Yesterday...

What did I miss? Yesterday I was off on a bit of a cyber intervention...a cyber rescue. It was a friend of mine...her name is Francois...a French girl that I met in the Swedish For Immigrants class here. She was the first person that I began my teaching comeback with, my first student in the modern age of tennis. I gave her a couple of lessons over at the local golf club here that has a couple of courts that have been eroding over the years.

Things went sour here for her...she and Magnus dissolved things because of an infatuation she had for some Italian boxer for some six years, she was keeping it to herself all those years, he just happened to be Magnus' best friend. Nothing ever happened between her and the boxer...it was just an infatuation she says. Now she is in the Caribbean, in the Gulf of Mexico and life is still playing havoc with her. She sent me a rambling email about the diving business, drugs, men, gypsies and of course Magnus...he was her "rock" she says but they didn't want to get married. She just couldn't get over the Italian. Computers are good like that...cyber rescues, cyber missions!


But...upon my return to reality and the French Open, I caught Mats Wilander on the Eurosport channel (sort of Europe's version of ESPN lite I suppose). He was talking with his comely British cohost, Annabelle something or other, at the French Open...they host a show called "Game, Set and Mats" every evening after the matches to recap what was going on, even if nothing was. They sort of make it up as they go along. A lot of drivel sometimes it seems. They showed one of the women victors doing the "moon walk" when she did her victory dance. Victory dance?

Boring day, except for Nadal's third set, if you ask me...not that anybody is, but Wilander said something interesting about a meeting that he attended. Mats commented that he hoped that the tournament did not change venues, from Rolland Garros to someplace else...I think that I detected a bit of nostalgia in his demeanor. A weak moment. He didn't really say who the meeting was with, but the topic of discussion was, apparently they are back at it again...they are thinking of ways to "modify and improve" the game because they are losing audience.

He specifically mentioned the age group of under 50 as being MIA. But that seems to be just about everyone that might possibly be interested in watching a game that is currently being played at nearly the speed of light on the professional level. The audience under 50...that is pretty funny. Down right crazy if you think about it. Houston...we have a problem.

Anyways, his mentioning the meeting was a bit of a ramble...the only thing I remember him saying was something about speeding up the matches. He said something about eliminating the let call on the serve and I forget everything else he said. They are back at it again. Changing the thing that was never broken in the first place. What will they think of next? What about all of that tradition? Oh never mind.

All of this discussion about strings in the forum has sort of woken me up a bit. I pulled a Rip Van Winkle...never touched a racquet for 15 years. The spin on the ball is just unbelievable. I cannot believe how the ball is arching. I wonder what Tilden would of said. I never did care for the equipment guy types, no offense, geoff. It's only past experience. Besides, you are the exception because of your contributions to our forum. I'm gleaning from you, too. I follow all the clues, no matter the source.

No wonder nobody wants to go to the net. They would be taking their own life into their hands. It was sort of surprising how much Laver and Rosewall were going to the net in that archaic piece that Phil was so kind to post in this thread earlier.

I wonder what tomorrow will bring...for Djokovic. Yawn. An early exit at the hands of Del Potro, I hope. I am dreading another Nadal vs. Djokovic final. Soon they will be calling it one of the greatest rivalries of all time...like Federer vs. Nadal. Roger may have his hands full...his opponent reads Dostoyevsky from what I understand.

Phil, Stotty...it's only x number degrees of separation isn't it! So cool!

[stotty]

Thanks for the photo.

That tall block of apartments (on the far side of the photo) is where my wife's parents live!

The world gets smaller and smaller, doesn't it?

[gzhpcu]

Porto Ceresio in the winter time... Golosone means gluttonous.... Will try it out...

[stotty]

I'll look forward to it, Phil. We are off to Majorca this year, but next year (or even later at the end of the year) will be spent in Porto Ceresio. Be great to meet you and have a game....shall we spin for serve now?

Yes, the promenade in Porto Ceresio is lovely, isn't it? There is a wonderful ice-cream parlour called Il Golosone there too... do try it....best ice-cream I've ever tasted!

[gzhpcu]

Phil

I am married to an Italian who worked in Lugano, at a jewellers call Bonaglia. She lived in a place called Porto Ceresio on the Italian side of the border. Her parents still live there. She came over to England to marry me 15 years ago.

It's a beautiful place Lugano. I went there many times when visiting my wife before we married. When my wife and I next visit Porto Ceresio, I will drop you a line. We can meet up and have a singles!

Small world, isn't it?

Small world indeed Stotty! We often go to Porto Ceresio for a walk on its promenade... Great if you can make it! Not only can we play some singles, but my wife is a very good cook...

[stotty]

Phil

I am married to an Italian who worked in Lugano, at a jewellers call Bonaglia. She lived in a place called Porto Ceresio on the Italian side of the border. Her parents still live there. She came over to England to marry me 15 years ago.

It's a beautiful place Lugano. I went there many times when visiting my wife before we married. When my wife and I next visit Porto Ceresio, I will drop you a line. We can meet up and have a singles!

Small world, isn't it?

[gzhpcu]

bottle,
I am not an expat. I am Swiss Italian, and at the tender age of three immigrated to Los Angeles with my parents.


My Dad played tennis and taught me to play at the tender age of 10, from my Mom I learned to swim and excercise. My Mom also taught me to paint, which I still do to this age...

Always an avid reader and bookworm, as a kid I'd read up on dinosaurs, Roman history, cosmology, etc., not forgetting Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse, however...

Was lucky enough to see the two Panchos train now and then as a kid, and my Dad lucky enough to play mixed doubles with Gorgeous Gussy Moran (my Mom didn't particularly like it...).

Came back to Zurich when I was 21 to study electrical engineering at the ETH (Swiss Federal Institute of Technogy).

Played interclub tennis in Zurich for close to 40 years.

Figured I had made enough money to retire at the age of 56, and returned to my home town Lugano, where I now work out a lot, play tennis daily, surf the internet, paint, read books (so much to learn, so little time...), enjoying life with my beautiful wife...

Here is a short video, showing a rainbow over Lugano, as seen from our balcony...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8quZaPZ1L0

[bottle]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CI-QiXbIw_I

I include the above video simply because I like it. I have no ulterior motive.

The freedom to kid around here is surely one of the great features of this forum, but I want to be serious now-- very, very serious.

Stepping back and viewing everything sub specie aeternitatis, as my Swedish girlfriend used to say, I am intrigued by the two seeming expats who contribute with such regularity.

I use the word "seeming" on purpose because these two fellows, the one living in Lugano, the other in the Swedish countryside, do not appear to suffer from the glibness and bitterness so apt to characterize expats everywhere. This makes me think they're not expats at all but rather simply Americans living well in another country.

The way that tennis fits into this equation, along with Steve's translation, has to appeal to me in a personal way (despite the contempt that the American publishing industry holds for all things personal) since about a decade ago or more I tried to move to Budapest hoping to teach English and maybe tennis and then to graduate into translation, which would be the way to actually succeed by earning money, according to my pro-active Hungarian friends.

Learning Magyarul, one of the most difficult languages in the world, however, proved beyond me, especially when I wasn't out in the street engaging in constant conversation but rather was sequestered in a bullet-riddled apartment building writing unpublishable American fiction.

Listen, surviving in this country is pretty damned difficult. Where I live now,
Grosse Pointe, Michigan, has one of the highest cancer rates in America, for instance. Living in another country, though-- making the tennis or whatever
work-- is a terrific accomplishment. I'm thinking of the Swedes, Swiss and Hungarians I've known who made it in the United States as well.

One of the many reasons tennis is so great is the way it contributes to multi-culturalism. There is nothing this country needs right now more than the ability to get outside of itself.

Just as I seem to go nowhere in my tennis invention until I start comparing two different players trying to achieve some shared, very specific and technical aim, one may not be able to think straight, ever, if one is a
landlocked American. One doesn't have to travel all the time, though that would be nice, but one does need to be more open to other cultures.

So as an Escher whose family comes from Zurich I'd like to say to Phil, please
do anything to make us more aware of where you live. (And your tennis videos and memorabilia are indeed very, very priceless.)

And to Steve, keep hanging out with those intelligent beasts and maybe add
two pinches of Thoreau. Your promise as a writer is considerable because you're willing to put yourself out there, with honesty, which means that your ego can take a hit.

I remember when I said something in one of William Golding's classes about self-indulgence, and suddenly he was taking me seriously. Self-indulgence is a big thing in writing. That subject certain comes up frequently in the posts here and yes, we can all easily become so personal that nobody knows what the hell we're talking about.

On the other hand there are a lot of scared people, too, deathly afraid that
they will embarrass themselves. Does that lead to good tennis or any other kind of good writing or even talk? I don't think so.

Best, when somebody reveals something of themselves we can see that they're having a good time, and without some kind of a good time there is nothing.

Take the greatest novel ever written, DON QUIXOTE. Is it self-indulgent? Of course. Except when it isn't.

As a former student of John Hawkes at Brown, I would have to say that everything is about finding the right voice-- for talking about tennis or anything else.

It's easy to find great voice in a forum as lively as this one-- happens all the time for a significant number of people. There's a lesson in this. This forum
happens to be a special place right now (but please, nobody, don't take it for granted, and believe me when I say it hasn't always been so good).

Readers, let us have our fun-- we won't hurt you, I promise.

P.S. When I first came to Stockholm, I stayed in the Superior Judge's apartment on Odengatan. In his daughter's bedroom I read my first novel,
WINDWAY, out loud. But the judge kept bursting through the door. Well,
we weren't just listening to my fiction. We talked, too, and stuff. One time when the judge burst in one or the other of our four legs was still up on the bed, and I was banished from that bedroom forever. So we rented an apartment one block away.

[bottle]

Celine, ha-ha. That's where those...three dots come from. Samuel Putnam translation of DON QUIXOTE in Phil's bookcase...the best.