chapter 16 UCLA

Early the next morning, I'm awakened by a knock at my door. It's my Mom. Says its Coach Bassett on the phone and he sounded upset. Groggy, I scrambled myself together. Picking up the phone, Coach started right in, said we needed to talk immediately. I agreed to meet him later that morning.

Long slow death drive up to Westwood on the 405. How much did he know? Was my college career over before it started? We met at the courts. Coach asked me point blank if I had a problem with drugs. He was the first person to ever ask me this. And all I had to do was say yes but I just couldn't. I wasn't ready to be that honest. I told him it was a mistake, that I got caught up with some wrong guys and that it wouldn't happen again. He said he had heard differently, that I was the problem and did he need to be concerned. Apologizing profusely, I again pleaded my case, giving Coach my word I wouldn't be a problem.

Which player would he be getting? How much did he know? 

The weekend before college. Its moving day. Moving out, moving in. Packing up my 65 Bug, I drove my personal belongings up to school first. I pulled in to Sproul Hall, one of the four giant residence halls on campus. My room was in the athletes dorm. Closer to school. Closer to practice. Not necessarily in that order. 

Walking down the long hall looking for my room, I passed by one emotional scene after another. Tough scenes really. Dads assembling, Mom's decorating. Recreating their children's home life at their new life. It all felt voyeuristic. Watching the hugs. Long hugs, with tears. Proud ones. Sad ones. Serious life check moments. The years. They go by so fast. Little baby girl all grown up. Mom and Dad, rulers of a now empty nest. 

How will they survive without each other?

For my furniture, I borrowed a truck. Friends of mine helped me load it. My parents watched from the living room. All packed up and ready to go. But there would be no hugs, or tears, or help even. Just waves from their chairs and a couple good lucks. My moving away from home moment, the ritual drained of all ceremony and meaning. Just like the past 18 years of moments. Just nothing. A big blank space where our family should have been. My coming of age moment. More a coming of rage. 

Half hour north on the 405, I was off to start a new life. Dorm life. Halfway houses toward adulthood. Coed, free wheeling. No curfews. Few rules. Liberated from all the pesky restrictions of living at home with your parents.

Moving out, moving in, moving up, tennis style. As a tennis player, I was used to moving up. All the age groups, from New England to SoCal, from local to National, now junior tennis to college tennis. I was now one of the guys I once idolized through the fences at Ojai. Four years, all expenses paid. There was only one more move up from here. The Professional Circuit.

Torrance to Westwood. Working class engineering crowd to right across the street from the gates of Bel Air, Sunset Blvd and Beverly Hills. Everyone hear was a BMOC. Famous kids of famous parents. Jane Mansfield's daughter Mariska Hargitay of Law and Order fame lived down the hall, Heather Locklear of Dynasty lore used to call the dorms home. Former Miss USA's lived cross campus on Sorority Row.  My Dad wrote software. Star struck right from the start, I was out of my galaxy here.

Athletic royalty passed through UCLA also. Jimmy Connors once called these dorms home. As did Arthur Ashe and Jackie Robinson and Kareem Abdul Jabaar. Walking past Pauley Pavilion on my way to class, the aura of the great John Wooden radiated all around. You felt his presence, you passed Pauley with reverence. It was like being in church, everyone conversing in hushed tones. Just a generation ago, UCLA won 11 NCAA basketball championships in one the greatest runs in collegiate sports history. Now a part of that great tradition, walking the UCLA campus I felt the greatness. It surrounded you, enveloped you. NCAA Championship banners hung everywhere. I now played in the Pac-10, the conference of champions. Greatness was in the air. Was it in me too? 

Social life. Westwood Village in the 1980's. Nothing like it. Girls, parties, beer. Every floor. Every night. Now I was really on my own. Fake ID in hand, I could drink whenever I wanted. And I did. I was an adult now. I could go to bed late, get up even later. I soon discovered class attendance was not mandatory. So I didn't go. At all. I'd deal with all that later. I was just so happy to be on my own. Or away from him. Clemency for my imprisoned soul.  

And the party was on. Fraternity row a mere stumble away. It was the Fall of 1982. Len Bias was still alive. Just Say No was still years away. The idea of drug testing college athletes had yet to be hatched. So there were drugs. Lots of them. West LA in the 1980's. Just use your imagination.

Tennis. First week of practice. The alumni were in town. Freeman, Willenborg, Teacher. Coach pairs me with stylish South African Robbie Ventor. It was Ventor that first turned me on to UCLA tennis, watching him through the fence at Ojai. Now he was across the net from me, a top 100 in the world player now. I needed to bring my best.  

We were on the middle court. Coach Bassett hustled back and forth, barking out the drills. His enthusiasm off the charts, his energy unmatched. Constant chatter, constant encouragement. I'd been at UCLA less than a week and I'd already run through a wall for him. 

Coach approached our court. We were doing cross courts. My forehand to his one handed lefty backhand. The kind of pattern I loved. Take it early, rip it hard, flat, and deep. Back him up. Break him down. Yet he's not backing up and he's not breaking down. He's not even showing a crack. He's getting more solid by the shot. I dug in. I'm trying to make him miss but its not happening. Coach walked on our court. He's locked in. I'm locked in. Ventor's locked in. I'm hitting every ball as hard as I can. Earlier, harder. He never flinched. I never eased off. Total focus. I refused to miss. Both of us. Five minutes in, still hitting the same ball cross court. Coach was clapping. Coach was yelling. Coach was cheering us on. Coach finally yelled switch it up. I nearly collapsed from exhaustion. Ventor looked my way, catching my eye. He nodded in approval. I can play here. 

My arm sore one day, Coach sent me to the trainers for treatment. I didn't want the day off. I didn't want him thinking I was soft. But rules were rules. Returning to the courts, I saw the team huddled around in a circle. The laughter was loud, the joking quite animated. They were hiding somebody. The circle breaks, out emerged Jimmy Connors, my first tennis idol, pulling up his shorts while zipping up his fly. Fresh off another US Open victory, he was at the courts, preparing to practice with the squad. On my courts, with my team. Of all the days to be hurt.

Professional drop ins to practice were not aberrations. If you were a tour player in Los Angeles looking to hit some balls, every weekday at 2:10 sharp at the Sunset Canyon Courts of UCLA, world class practice went down. Two rows of courts. Five adjacent in the front. Six adjacent in the back. Men in the front. Girls in the back. Just because. For it was 1982.

Practice. The same routine. Stretch. Run. Agility drills. Court assignments. MWF, one on one. Tu/Th two on ones. Coach led. Coach driven. Constant cadence. You knew where Coach was at all times. You knew when you could ease off, you knew when to crank it up. And the drills. Grinding monotonous repetitive drills. Almost 40 years ago, yet I could recite our practices right now like I just finished one

I'd never trained like this before. It was brutal, but I got it. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Hour and a half of drilling as hard as you could go. Then sets. Two of them. Practice sets, but there was nothing practice about them. It all counted here. Our practices were group auditions, with no role safe, a daily casting call for a starring slot on UCLA Men's Tennis. 

There were 12 of us on the team, all highly accomplished. Yet only six singles slots available. I wanted a spot. I wanted the part. I'd never wanted anything more in my life. I would look for Coach. Watch me Coach, See me. I'll show you. Every time he walked by, I hit harder, I grunted louder, I moved faster. I needed him to see me. Did you see that Coach? Do not take your eyes off me. Watch me want this.

Practices already a grind, yet I wanted more. I started practicing in the morning too. Before scheduled practice. Double sessioning. Be the first to the courts in the morning. Be seen by Coach. Show him my hunger, for everything counted.

Friday's soon became challenge match day. Three out of five sets. Let's Go. I won my first couple matches cleanly, but lost another heartbreaker to Willenborg after having a match point. The loss hurt. Not fatal, but dangerous. If I lost one more match, I was finished for the season. Final challenge match. Playing South African Craig Ventor, younger brother of Robbie. Elegant player, he's taking it to me right from the start. I lose the first two sets badly. Thank God for best of five. Third set I started to settle down. I won the third then grinded out a close 4th. On to the 5th set. Lose this and any chance of playing for UCLA this season was shot. Darkness setting in, we were the only two left playing. Me, Ventor, Coach, last spot in the line-up at stake. And I played a spotless set, winning 6-2 comfortably. Fall Quarter over, I think I'd done enough to win a part. All that remained now was the call back. 

Christmas break. Coach wanted us to stick around and keep grinding. Yet I was still eligible for one more junior tournament. The Orange Bowl. The Junior World Championships. In Miami. On clay. I'd never played an international event. But I wanted it. I remembered reading about the Orange Bowl as a little kid. Jimmy Pugh beat Jimmy Arias in the 12 and under Finals. I remembered thinking how much better were these guys than me and how would I ever catch up to them? I couldn't win a local tournament. They were competing for the World Championships. 

To get there would take money though. Broke, my club got in on the act. They wanted to sponsor me. They started raising money for me to attend, putting a sign up sheet right in the hallway. And the donations started rolling in. Until my Dad saw the sheet, immediately tearing it down in a fury, a lethal shot to his false pride. A member's company sponsored me anyway. Danache Custom Brokers, a step up from Chico's Bail Bonds, yet the assistance was greatly appreciated. My best friend Kelly Jones decided to play also. We agreed to play doubles. Arriving at the event, I look for the draws. Kelly and I were seeded #1. We're the number one seeds at The World Championships. 

How do you get there from here?

I returned home from Miami to a chilly reception. My grades had arrived. Complete disaster. An F, NP and an incomplete. I barely went to a single class and I slept through my Calculus Final. My professor allowed me to retake the final. If I got an A on the final, she'd give me a C. And I did. Because Math. After one quarter at school I had a GPA of 1.0 and 4 units. ((Find Picture)) Complete disaster

January 1983: I returned to school, finding myself immediately placed on UCLA's subject to dismissal list. STD. More scarlet letters. Coach was stressing. I told him I was doing well when I so wasn't. Now I had nightly study hall, to make sure I was doing well. 

My Parents were stressing even more. They didn't like any it. They were mad at Coach, said he wasn't keeping keeping an eye on me like he promised. He actually was though, just not about school. Coach cared about one thing. My tennis. And I'd been in college for only three months and an unsustainable imbalance was developing. All tennis. All fun. No school. It was all way out of whack and if I I wasn't careful, my college tennis dreams would be over before I ever played a match.

At practice the day before our first match. Our line up still not decided. I'd been training great, winning all my sets. Our number one player returned to school from a semester at Tour. Danny Saltz. Crazy mother fucker. His first day back, Coach throws me at him on Court 1 for the last set of the day. My final audition. Whole team watching. The heckling was on. Stay calm. Stay focused. Its close. Its late. I took him out in front of the whole team and most importantly, Coach. It was going to be hard not to play me now.

After practice. Team meeting. I'm tight as a fresh string job as Coach reads off our first match's line-up..

At 1: Danny Saltz. At 2: Jeff Klaparda. At 3: John Davis. At 4: Michael Kures. At 5: Chuck Willenborg.

One spot left, seven of us sitting there. I wanted this more than anything I've ever wanted. Please tell me you saw me Coach..

At 6: Coach called my name.

I got the role. I called home, excited to relay the news that I'd be starting tomorrow. Dad responded by asking about school. Then he started in about my parking tickets. The coolest of cool receptions. Not a single word about making UCLA's starting line-up.

I got off the phone quickly. I would have asked them to come, but from his tone, I'm pretty sure Dad was going to pass. Whatever. Fuck 'em. Another round of weird coming up. Nervous night. Up late, excited. Can't sleep. Nothing new. But the committee was in a better mood. Much kinder. Against all odds, I'd made the team. A real team. Not that fake JDC team stuff. I was now a starting freshman on the defending NCAA Champion UCLA Bruins kind of team.

Next afternoon. My first match. Both teams meet on Court one for introductions. Small smattering of  a crowd. I look up to the stands to see if my folks came. Nothing. I'm going it alone again.

But I'm not. I have a coach and a school and a dozen teammates. We lined up. Match ups announced, introductions began. Our top player is hurt. I'm playing five. My name gets called. I step forward. Applause, hand shakes, shy, embarrassed by the attention. I look down. I see the front of my shirt. The Nike swoosh on the right, the 4 letters UCLA on the left. (nothing scarlet about those letters) I'm short of breath. I think of all the players who've worn those letters before. Ashe, Martin, Connors, Teacher, Teltscher. A who's who of American tennis. I'm now a part of something important; the famed college tennis legacy that was UCLA.

Playing for my school, playing for my Coach, playing for my team mates. Definitely no longer on my own. Head running. Heart thumping. Hands sweaty. I feel alive. Too alive. Way too keyed up. Trying to impress everybody, I'm over hitting everything.

I'm missing by big margins. Coach sees me spazzing, but he stays calm. He's seen this a few times before. A frantic freshman in his first match. He walked on my court, sitting down next to me. He spoke to me in calm tones. It felt strange to be treated so. Walking back to the baseline, he put his arm on my shoulder. Settle down, settle down. My body relaxed, my mind followed. That foreign feeling of being nurtured. The touch of a hand, a soothing voice. I felt safe with Coach, like a child in protected custody. Nothing ever felt so good on a tennis court. And my mind quieted and my body settled down. I didn't lose another game. 

Our team won easily. At the post-match chalkboard talk, Coach decided to have a little fun with me. 

"I've seen some fired up freshman in my day. Almost had to call the fire department on Buss over here."

Everybody laughed. And that day they gave me a nickname. The Magic Buss, from The Who song. From that day forward they called me Magic. I was a part of something now, a team that cared about me. It all felt good.

Coach Bassett had a system. Everything earned, nothing given. Win, you move up. Lose, you move down. Pretty simple, don't lose, don't get dropped. Fair. Like a lot like my tennis growing up. Don't miss. Don't get yelled at. I thrived on negative incentive. Being low man in the line-up though, I had no margin for error, or to the bench I would go.

Season starts. Matches and more matches. I kept winning at six. Finally Willenborg at five loses. I'm moved up. My college tennis learning curve was steep. I knew few of the players, many of them 3-4 years older than myself with tons of experience and everyone could play at this level. My opponents grown young men. Myself, Half man, half child, trying to find myself. But I'm loving it, especially the practice regiment. Nobody to call anymore. Nobody cancelling, nobody dogging it. Drills and drills and drills. I'd never trained like this before. I'm getting super fit, feeling like I can go all day. Constant encouragement and support from the coaches, my team mates, our student body. And with all the winning, my belief in myself skyrocketed. And more matches. And more matches. And I kept winning.

Playing the University of San Diego. I'm getting blown out. No answers. 6-3, 5-3 40-0. Quadruple match point down. My season hung in the balance. Lose this, its next guy up and to the bench I go. Yet I survived that mess, only to go down 40-0 the next game. Quadruple match point again. I pulled a Houdini, somehow escaping, saving eight match points. I won the final set 6-0. Season salvaged if not saved. But Coach wasn't happy. Bruins don't lose to Toreros. 

Couple months in, matches on top of matches, yet I'm still undefeated. Still playing five, winning comfortably, with far less heroics. Then the matches started getting tougher. Kures lost at 4. I get moved up. With Spring break approaching, we had the heart of our schedule coming up. All the top east coast schools came west for a week of battling. I'd been playing well, not zoning. Just solid, finally learning how to win. Focused to a fault, I was taking care of my business. 

Week begins. Four matches in four days. Clemson, Harvard, Arkansas, SMU. I sweep through the first 3 without the loss of a set

Day 4. Huge showdown with SMU. They're number 1 in the country. Rodney Harmon, Eric Korita, Jerome Vanier. Future professionals up and down the line-up. I'm playing four. I draw Floridian John Ross, fellow JDC team mate and the #1 ranked junior in the United States the year prior. He's big, he's strong, he's rough. I have my work cut out for me. 

 

Match day. Introductions. SMU was coached by US tennis legend Dennis Ralston. (picture) Last time I saw Ralston, I ran in to him in that Dallas elevator with a case of beer in my hands. He rightfully shook his head in disgust. Now eighteen months later, I'm playing his top recruit. Match starts and I catch fire. I can't play any better. And Ralston's on my court watching. I race out to a 6-2, 5-0 lead when Ralston walked off. What do you think of me now Coach? I closed out the match in straights. Best result of my life. 

 

A winning streak. Everything happening fast. I start getting lots of attention. LA Times, The Herald Examiner. the Daily Breeze, The Daily Bruin. Articles and pictures. I'm named ITA Player of the Month. My self-consciousness mutating, I'm being pointed at, spoken about. Newfound attention. I felt the need to up my game. I attempted a cool haircut. Complete fail. I'm out of my league. I don't even know this league. I'm transitioning, from a nobody to a somebody. Yet who I used to be is still a part of me, forever uncomfortable in my skin. 

 

Late one evening I get a call. Its Dad. He's animated. Obviously he'd been drinking, but nothing abnormal. He wanted to talk, but not about my grades or the parking tickets or any more of my irresponsibility stuff. He wanted to talk tennis. He'd been reading the papers. He saw the articles. He read the scores. He knew what was happening. It was time to talk tennis again. 

 

For he knew. He grew up in SoCal watching college tennis. He knew the meaning of what I was doing. Pros to the left of me, future stars to the right. Hall of fame coaches walking on and off my court. He knew. Because tennis. And just like my first ever tournament, he knew exactly where I stood, for the rankings didn't lie. 

 

On the phone with Dad, he's firing on all cylinders, a soliloquy for the ages. I listen and listen and listen. Will there be a mood swing? I try to break his flow, asking him if they wanted to come up for the next day's match against Pepperdine. It was going be rough. Glenn Michibata, John Van Nostrand, Kelly Jones, all coached by Allen Fox. Future pros up and down the courts. Dad said they'll be there. Why not, lets ratchet up the energy some. 

 

Match day. Mom and Dad are on there way up. Its March of my freshman year. I've been at school 6 months, playing all these high profile matches, yet my folks, who lived 30 minutes away, had yet to set foot on campus. But now they were coming up. Pepperdine UCLA. Two top 5 in the country powerhouses. Two LA tennis rivals. They were better than us, but we were at home and Sunset Canyon would be packed with a couple thousand screaming crazy Bruin fans. 

 

The match about to begin, I looked for my folks. I found them, sitting by themselves in the upper corner. Both teams crowded on to court one. It was time for introductions. My name gets called. My teammates cheer me on. Magic. Magic. I'm embarrassed still. Inexperienced at people cheering for me. I look to my folks to see if they're cheering. Nothing. Just sitting up there staring down, expressionless. 

 

Same as it ever was...

 

Who would I playing that day? Rill Baxter of Florida stepped forward. He hates me. Its mutual. Good match up for me though. I just beat him up at Pepperdine a month back and I was playing much better now. But he always wanted to fight me, threatening me both times we played. I just hope he didn't challenge me in front of my Dad, because I was still pretty much a pussy, those boxing nights of my youth not having the desired effect. 

 

Match time. If you like your tennis quiet, don't come to a college match. Five matches going simultaneously, multiple coaches charging up and down the row of courts, clapping and cheering and barking out encouragements. Every match razor close, multiple court momentum swings the norm. Great shots being hit constantly, the crowd never stopped roaring. Frequently the roar was for me, though often you never know exactly. Because you're playing. You're trying to focus on your match, but you're also watching, keeping tabs on your team mates, always with an eye to how decisive your match would be. And its never quiet. Hard to quiet the mind with constant chaos all around you. 

 

So if you like your tennis quiet, college matches aren't for you...

Starting slowly, I'm getting beat pretty badly. He's playing spotless. Maybe he won't want to beat me up if he routed me. Lot going on at Sunset Canyon that day. I'm trying to get settled, see if I can hang around. But his game frustrated me. He had so much feel. No matter what I tried, I can't hit through him. I kept looking up to the crowd where my parents sit. Why did I have to invite them? Why invite more distractions? What ever happened to never change a winning game?

 

Baxter finally cooled off a bit and I caught a break. I get back on serve. The set goes deep, I catch a few more breaks, winning the first set in a tight tiebreaker. Feeling good now, my shoulders relaxed, my hands started to release, the running downhill with the wind at my back part as I finally hit my stride. And the court's were loud and crazy, Bruins and Waves doing battle, yelling and screaming and fighting going on, just not on my court. I was on my absolute best behavior, trying to beat Rill without him wanting to beat me up.

I closed out my match in straight sets. First guy off. Bruins up 1-0. Walking to the front, I get the heroes welcome from the crowd. Soaking in the moment. Back slaps and high fives all around. They're yelling my name. Magic Magic Magic... I can't help but blush with embarrassment and pride.  

 

I looked up for my folks. There was an empty space where they once sat. I saw friends from my club,  asking if they'd seen my parents. One said they saw them a bit ago walking across the parking lot. Maybe they had to find a bathroom as I hurried back to root my team on. The matches were tight and went long. We split the singles 3-3. Just as doubles was about to begin, I looked up to the stands again. My folks were nowhere to be found. Our team ended up losing a 6 hour heartbreaker, they were just a little better than us. But I had a decent day, winning a big match in front of a full house, never an easy task for my unusually anxious self. 

 

 Later that evening, I finally dragged my exhausted self  back to my room. I was concerned about my folks, who never made it back to the match. I knew its a bad time to call. Way too late, Dad's window of charm having closed hours ago. Yet I called anyway. 

 

 Dad answered right away. I asked if they were alright.

"Yeah we're fine." He responded brusquely.

"How come you guys took off so early?"

"We couldn't stand it. Whole thing was horrible."

"What, my play? I came back to win in straight sets"

"No, not your play. You played fine. Is it like that all the time, all those people and the constant noise and that jackass coach of yours running all over the place kicking the fence, yelling at you guys constantly?"

"Well, yeah. Kinda. That's how matches are."

"Your mother and I hated it. Smoked half a pack of cigarettes in an hour, couldn't wait to get out of there and got a fucking parking ticket on top of it"

"Told you they were assholes"

"They're not assholes Barry. Anybody who gets as many tickets as you is the asshole. So how are you classes going? You know, I'm watching that shit going on out there and you guys are playing matches all the time and they go all day. There's no way your getting any school work done with all that going on. Am I right?"

"Well...you're not wrong"

"How were your grades this quarter? You have to be fucking up again if that's all you're doing."

'Ummm..I think I did better"

"You couldn't do any worse. How better are you doing? What does that mean? We haven't got your grades yet from your last classes. You were taking 16 units and doing that tennis everyday. No chance, no way, can't be done. That's ridiculous what we just watched, you're wasting your time up there"

"Ok." This was not going in the right direction at all...

"You can't get an education and be doing that every day. It's impossible, and you're taking real classes. How you supposed to pass physics and engineering labs if you miss half of them?'

"Yeah, ummm, the athletic department suggested I take some easier classes after my first quarter train wreck, so I pulled back on the science labs for a bit"
 

"What classes are you taking?"

"I'm taking my GE classes. Jazz Appreciation, Baroque Art History, and an Urban Architecture class"

A long pause ensued..."Did they tell you to take those classes? Are those the set up classes for all the numb nut football players so they can all pass and stay eligible and play football? Is that what you're doing with your education, taking numb nut classes with a bunch of numb nuts? You're not even going to class, are you? You're just playing tennis all the time for that asshole. I knew it. Remember when he came here for dinner and he asked you what you were going to major in and you said engineering or Pre-Med and you remember his response, do you? Barbara, what did that Bassett guy say when Barry told him what he wanted to major in?

Mom chimed in from the back.."He said he'd rather you not major in those fields for it would take a lot of time away from your tennis"
 

"Remember that? I've never seen your mother so God damn mad in my whole life, we couldn't get him out the door fast enough."

'No fair telling me all this shit now. Why did you let me sign there then? I had a full ride to Berkeley. I could have gone there instead"

"Oh that would have worked out great. You'd probably have a fucking tattoo on your forehead chasing that hippy Grateful Dead band around."

"Jesus Dad, Easy.."

"No easy. We're dead serious. You're not gonna make it up there like this. You're in over your head. We see all the articles about you, treating you like you're the next coming. Its ridiculous. We can't support this anymore. If you want to play tennis, play tennis. If you want to go to school, go to school. But you can't do both and if you want to go back up there next year and play for that creep, you're on your own. I can't support what I just saw today, so figure it out, it's your call. We think you should quit playing, come live at home, enroll at El Camino Junior College, get yourself an education and a job somewhere and build a normal life for yourself. What you're doing up there is not going to work."

"You've been on campus a whole fucking hour in 6 months and this is the shit you're dropping on me? Seriously, that's just a little fucked up."

"It's your call. But we're not going to support you going back up there next year and that's final" 

 

And with that he got off  the phone.

 

Later that evening, I lay exhausted in bed, trying to process what the fuck I just heard. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last I'd feel that way after speaking to my Father. But if past was prologue, I knew he meant what he said.

 

My Dad knew only one world. His world. He could help me with that world. But not this seat of my pants high stress college tennis experience I was living. He saw the danger in it. The imbalance. That putting all my eggs in to a sport was the wrong move, and what was worse was being dependent upon  people who thought the direct opposite, for my Dad thought they were just using us. If we won matches, they kept their jobs, pure and simple, no different than the higher profile sports of basketball and football.

 

But his bedside manner. What was he so afraid of?  Was it his vicarious narcissism that he couldn't handle the college tennis life, or was his sense of myself so deep he knew I couldn't handle it with my implosion just a matter of time. Either way, the UCLA tennis experience was light years beyond his comfort zone. Of course I didn't see it that way. And why would I? I was undefeated, moving right up the ladder, playing great, receiving all the perks of an emerging player. 

 

But the mixed messages from the father I let define me all these years still vexed me, my only comfort coming from the numbing effects of drugs and alcohol. There were so many things wrong about that conversation, the abusiveness, the condescension, the devaluing, the lack of guidance, the impulsiveness of his solution, his dismissive tone. He made it too easy to kill the messenger.

 

Time would soon tell whether he was right or not, but what I knew was I was playing the best tennis of my life, yet the conversation with my Dad triggered all the feelings of inadequacy I'd been fighting so hard to overcome. And I was in no mood for another long sleepless night with the committee again. No, the gnawing sense of uneasiness I felt was beyond processing. It needed to be rubbed out and good, with as much alcohol and drugs as I could stomach as I felt my rage return.