Coach called the team in. A teachable moment. We got chewed out like never before. No names need be mentioned, but we quit on him. As he continued to chew, a sinking feeling swept over me. He was calling me out for quitting. I'd committed tennis' cardinal sin. No way I ever played for UCLA again.
But in fairness, I did give Coach my all. I simply had nothing left to give. My tank was empty, I'd been running on fumes for weeks now. Yet here I stood, burned out, emotionally fried, hungover as all fuck, and with every fiber of my being wanting the day off, yet knowing if he didn't play me, I'd be getting a lot more than a day off.
Coach began to announce the day's line-up. I was torn. Sit me, play me. A part of me was good either way. Going through the line-up, he reached six singles. Seven of us there, only one spot left. And he called my name. I'd survived. I was somehow still starting. And as much as I would have loved a day off, to be dropped now would have been fatal.
Our team morale was alarmingly low. I should have been benched. Losing at six while not giving my best, I had six equally worthy teammates waiting impatiently for their chance all season, rooting through clenched teeth for the team to succeed, yet quietly hoping whoever was playing six would lose to give them their shot. Yet their wait would have to continue. Against all reason, Coach still wanted me in the line-up.
With the team struggling, we needed a win. Coach threw every bit of himself at us that morning. It was up to us to match his energy? Match time, the introductions. Both teams congregated on court one. I'm introduced first, shipped off to court six once again. But this time I'm consumed with relief. I'd been granted clemency. What a difference 24 hours could make.
Jittery from everything, I started slowly, getting served off the court by a big lefty from Hawaii Henry Somerville, my over-imbibing the night before not helping anything. No way I was to have an easy day on the courts; the tennis Gods would not allow it. Splitting sets again, for what else, another stressful three setter, I caught word the team was struggling, down 3-2, with my match the last one on. I needed to pull this out or we were in big trouble. Henry and I played a tight third set with no breaks, eventually reaching another third set tie-breaker. Playing better now, I managed to stay calm, allowing Coach to coach me. And as my team rallied to my side, I responded by raising my game too. All business, no more drama. I hung on to win the third set breaker, evening the match at 3-3. We would quickly sweep the doubles over Cal, ending the weekend on a winning note.
But barely, for damage had been done...
With the season winding down, we had three matches remaining before heading off to Athens, Georgia for the National Championships. Sitting at 23 dual match wins, I needed two more victories to set UCLA's all time record for wins in a season. First up was USC, this time cross town on their home courts. I drew Jorge Lozano at five. Wasn't about to get a win against him, for Jorge had my number. As a team, we lost another tight one, but I played well and the team fought hard. USC was just a little better than us.
Last weekend of the season. The Arizonas were coming to town. I needed to sweep to set the record. Still not playing great, I managed to win my first match comfortably. Last dual match of the season with the all-time UCLA record for wins on the line. A lot to play for. A record. Some history. Hungry but still fragile, I tried everything I could to motivate myself. The belief, the doubt. The never ending oscillation. Could I dig deep enough to really do this?
My opponent was tough and playing well. We settled in for, what else, another long three setter. Once again, I was the last singles match on. My teammates, all knowing what was at stake, rallied to my side. I was tight. I was nervous. I wasn't playing great, but I scrapped. Five-four in the third, serving for the record. Barely able to hold my racket, I somehow managed to keep my cool and serve out the match, finishing my freshman year with UCLA's all-time single season record for wins at 25, more than any other Bruin ever. Even a couple more than Jimmy Connors.
How do you get there from here...
Because tennis, there was little time for celebration. All the aforementioned tennis drama was a mere table setting for what was on deck. We were on our way to Athens, Ga as the 5th seed in the 1983 NCAA Men's tennis championships. What Williamsport was to Little League, Athens was to college tennis. Legendary Georgia Coach Dan Magill began hosting the NCAA's in Athens in 1972, turning an otherwise forgettable event in to a happening. Playing in Athens was the dream of every college tennis player in America. And in a couple weeks, that dream would soon become my reality
Georgia in May. Hot, sticky, not everyday pleasant Southern California. The southern heat and humidity were problematic for the California teams. But Coach had ideas. He made the team practice in rain suits, creating the hottest and sweatiest conditions possible. Bikram tennis before Bikram was a thing. I knew Coach was all about preparation, but to my tapped out, dying for a break self, this bordered on madness.
Athens approaching. With the mystique, I should have been thrilled. A full season in, I should have been building strength, hitting my homestretch stride. But with all the drama of my late season collapse, the whole experience felt bittersweet and frankly, I was all out of cross-courts. And with the workouts for Nationals taking on a whole new level of intensity, tennis had ceased being fun. But there was plenty of fun happening away from tennis. Relieved of the burden of matches, I cranked my hedonistic ways up another dangerous notch. It was Westwood in the Spring of 1983, renting a room at the Hotel California. You just had to be there.
Training hard, partying harder, I was pushing my body to unsafe limits. I started feeling tired, but this fatigue felt different, like something was wrong. The day before leaving for Georgia, I woke up and could barely swallow. Already on thin ice with Coach, I didn't dare tell anyone for fear of being left home. At our first practice in Athens, I had stop, unable to make it through. Under pressure now, I finally told our trainer what was going on. He feared I had mono or possibly Strep throat. Coach now informed, they isolated me from the team, telling me to stay to myself. Our trainer gave me some penicillin to knock it out, but would it kick in in time?
Match day. My first NCAA's, yet I still felt wretched and Coach could tell. He asked me how I was doing. I knew I shouldn't be playing, but I couldn't say that to Coach. If I opted out now, he'd pull me from everything, so I told him I was good to go. Erring on the side of caution, Coach put me at six in the line-up to be safe.
First round, we play Michigan. I should have had a routine match. But ornery from all the training and stressed from feeling lousy, knowing full well if I didn't look sharp my season was over, I won only two games against a guy I'd never heard of. Our team managed to win comfortably, but Coach could see I wasn't well, pulling me from the rest of the tournament. We would lose another nail biter to Pepperdine in the quarter-finals, finishing the season ranked 5th in the country, a banner season for most programs, but an impending disaster if you're UCLA.
For Bruins don't finish 5th to anybody...
Season over, we made the long journey home to California. So much to process. Finally a little time away from tennis and a good time to find my classes for I had some catching up to do. Walking the campus in the afternoon, on another brilliant SoCal Spring day, I found just like Stanford and Georgia, UCLA had a vibrant college life too. I'd been at school eight months now, yet I'd never been on the UCLA campus in the afternoon. Not once. Afternoons were for tennis. As were weekends. And most mornings. And every thought and emotion and conversation.
Just like Coach said to my parents, school would take time away from my tennis...
Continuing my walk, I was immersed in an oasis of activity. Bands jamming, Debaters debating, street artists plying their trades, with uni-cyclists and rollerskating martian guitarists adding to the freak show. It was a veritable circus, at my school no less, no e-tickets required. And beautiful coeds everywhere. I felt like I'd been airlifted on to a movie set. Yet it was my stage, all right before me for the taking. Having a few weeks with no practice in the afternoon might just might be the break I needed.
Yet Coach Bassett had other ideas. We were home for all of two days before he summoned us back to the practice courts for the remaining three weeks of school. The horror. The horror. He had to
be kidding. But rest wasn't in his DNA. Nor was failure. We came up short this year. Solution, we needed to work harder.
The air was tense between Coach and I for the way the season ended. During my season review, he tried to renege on my scholarship increase, but I stood my ground, putting up a good fight, that a deal was a deal, but more importantly, I was going to need the money. I opened up to him about my parents and how they weren't happy with what they saw this season and how they weren't going to support my staying at school. Coach then shared his unhappiness, telling me I needed to take better care of myself to make it through a whole season and that crapping out at the end like I did didn't do anybody any good.
I opted to keep my unhappiness to myself...
We spoke about the up coming summer. All my teammates would be traveling, playing the satellite circuits, chasing down those ever coveted ATP points. I on the other hand had no competitive tennis scheduled. I would be staying in Westwood, working locally while taking summer school to get caught up on my units while living in my fraternity. I mean, what could go wrong?
Summer time. First day of work, I'm about to head over to my job, teaching tennis in my old hometown of Torrance on cracked public park courts with metal nets to a bunch of beginners, all for 6 bucks an hour when the phone rang. It was Coach. He had a job for me, teaching members of the Saudi Arabian royal family who were staying in Beverly Hills for the summer. They wanted to learn tennis and would I be interested?
Go to UCLA, The people you will meet make all the difference..
A hell to the yes I said. I called the number immediately. It was the estate of Prince Khalid Mohammed bin Saad (add in Bio about horse training)) who was looking for a tennis pro and could I come to his house that afternoon. I said absolutely I could. Hanging up the phone, I instantly called my other job, quitting it before I ever started.
That afternoon, I rolled up to the Prince's house in my 65 VW Bug. The property was called the Foothill Estate. I could tell you all about it, just look it up. With remodeling going on all around and the tennis court still under construction, the Prince and I hopped in a limo, taking it to a friend's court to play. And at that court I met another Prince and he wanted to learn tennis too. First day on the job, and now I had two Princes.
And we all hit it off. They started inviting me to join them out at night. Rolls Royces, Limousines, the finest French restaurants in Beverly Hills, private night clubs with after hours parties. And I'm all of 18 years old and no one bats an eye. My Prince insisted I bring friends with me. As many as I like. And we soon became good friends, with him giving me full reign of his property. I could bring my fraternity brothers up for lunch, full table spreads of meat and fish and lobster and after lunch we could sun away the afternoon by the waterfall fed pool. And we played a little tennis too, with him catching the fever. He eventually wants to play doubles, asking me to grab two other professional to join us. And I did. And the Prince and the three of us played doubles every afternoon, paying us all in stacks of crisp hundred dollar bills.
Culture shock on steroids. My summer of living dangerously. Private parties at his house. Heidi Fleiss' high priced escorts donning the property. I was way out of my league here, but somehow they enjoyed having me around. For the Saudis took a liking to me. I became part of their crew. One afternoon, I get a call from the Prince. They were going to Lake Tahoe for the week and would I like to join them, and of course bring a friend. And I did. We all met up at his house, taking limos to the airport, entering a secured area. And there stood the Caesars Palace Grummond G-2 Private jet to transport us. And people soon began to arrive. Sonny Bono and his wife. Barry Goldwater Jr and friend. I was now part of the Prince's entourage.
Arriving at Caesar's Tahoe, I'm escorted to my suite. Its on the top floor. The whole top floor. It was ours for the week. And the Prince liked to gamble. Ten thousand a hand at Baccarat. But right from the outset, he's getting crushed. He thinks I'm bad luck, so he gives me money to go away. Alright, alright, may his bad luck continue.
It was all so extreme. Watching him play blackjack, three thousand a hand. Being part of the Prince's posse, I became a marked man. A friend of the Prince. A beautiful young woman with an exotic name soon approached me. Laleina Sarelle. She would join our party for the evening. Upon returning to Los Angeles, I would take her to a fraternity party the following week. Couple years later at the movies, I would see her on the big screen as Sharon Stone's lover Trixie in Basic Instinct. Life in the fast lane. The people you'll meet.
Summer continued on like this with no real tennis getting played. And I mean none. It was West Los Angeles of the year 1983. An epidemic descended upon our community. Powder cocaine. It was everywhere all the time and I had too much money now. A couple close friends soon got in on the business side of affairs. My growing insatiable demand met an emerging endless supply, locking me in to a death spiral well beyond my control. Access and money, neither could outpace the other. With 24/7 service and unlimited credit available, staying up all night became my new norm. For I was discovering, once I started doing coke, I couldn't stop.
I soon became woefully out of shape from happy hours and after parties with nary a break to be found. The drinking and drugging life. I used to have a drug problem. Then I started making a lot of money. Now drugs were no problem. An accelerating habit born from unlimited access. My Saudi summer soon ended though, they were heading back to their homeland, but they told me to stay in touch, that they'd be back for Christmas and another week in Lake Tahoe.
With only a week to go before school and team practice resumed, I began plotting my return to peak tennis conditioning. The plan was simple, cut the partying back, start getting some sleep, and hit some balls. Shouldn't have been hard to execute, to not do something. Addition by subtraction again. But one day in of trying to pull myself together, and there I was, back out on the town again doing all the same stupid shit.
Come sunrise, I'd stagger my way home. Lying awake in bed, trying to relax the mind while my body came down, always the fiercest of battles. Unable to sleep, with drugs still coursing through my system, the committee would come to order and really let me have it. What was I doing? WTF was wrong with me? You gotta settle the down. And on and on and on...
And those long nightly sessions would always end the same, with me vowing to do better. The plan would be get some rest, set up a late afternoon practice and under no circumstances would I go out. I had to do better. I had to. And the phone would ring. And I wouldn't answer it. But then evening would come. And I'd start feeling better. And the friends I hadn't seen all summer were back in town and they wanted to get together. And the bargaining would begin. Haven't seen them all summer, maybe stop by for just one. You still have a week. Plenty of time. Just wrap it up early. And no matter what, absolutely no blow.
And the night would begin, innocently and with the best of intentions. Yet my have only one grew to two. And then I'd have a third. And there was fun and there was laughter. And a fourth drink arrived. Then a shot. And another shot. And I'd like to blame the shots, but its the first drink that gets you drunk, for I never had just one.
And my friend would give me the look. And no words need be spoken as I would dart to the payphone to call my connection. And within that phone call, every iota of resolve and strength and determination to do better evaporated. Within 15 minutes, I'd be leaning over a mirror with a razor blade in one hand and a rolled up hundred dollar bill in the other, my brain laser-focused on getting as much cocaine in to my bloodstream as rapidly as possible, where it would circulate for time indefinite.
The night now begun in earnest, we started zipping about town, catching last call for alcohol and after hours parties somewhere somehow, always the same, music, drugs, girls, all night long... until the first break of day where the birds began singing, the paper hit the door, and the city streets slowly came to life. And as the first glow of dawn began to seep through the drawn drapes, I would be snapped back to reality. For it was morning and I was still going. And I'd done it again.
With my time to straighten up running out, the final weekend of summer approached, with team practice looming ominously the following Monday. I needed to chill. But there was the first UCLA football game of the season, and little sister rush at the Sigma Nu house was on, and now all my newfound party friends were back in Westwood and raring to go. This was no time to be stopping anything. But could I keep it check, or was I always fated to party out of control?
I was in college. Everyone partied hard, but they could all stop when they wanted. Why couldn't I? What was different about me? And it wasn't through lack of effort. Every morning after, I'd have the same conversation, that tonight would be different, that I'd exhibit some degree of self-control. But then tonight would come. And it always ended the same, with me having zero control over my life choices when drugs and alcohol were present. And on the final weekend of summer, Friday night in Westwood began and before long it was Monday morning and no balls had been hit nor books bought nor classes enrolled. Nothing. All that remained was a completely out of control 19 year old, knowing he had practice in a couple hours and it was going to be hell.
In no condition to practice, I called in busy, saying I had classes to add and other assorted bullshit. Coach gave me a day reprieve, but that would be it. I'd hardly slept a wink the whole weekend bender, yet as I laid my head down to rest, I would have another chat with myself, again vowing to do better, that tomorrow would be different, that I'd straighten out, get my act together, and get back to balling like I did last year.
And that next day I went to practice and it was the most hellish tennis experience of my life. In full survival mode, I hobbled back to my dorm to pass out and recover. Yet the committee had other ideas. I had to stop drinking, I had to stop drugging. I had to stay home. But how?
My only solution was to hide. Don't answer the phone. Don't answer the door. Just sit perfectly still and ride it out.
Sounded simple, do absolutely nothing. Shouldn't have been a hard thing to do. Except it wasn't. I lay there alone in bed, shaky, nervous, anxious, my body cramping from practice while withdrawing from a long hard intoxicating summer. I made it through the evening, but woke up the next morning in a terrible way. I once again called Coach to ask out of practice. This time it didn't go so well, with Coach saying that was it. No more days off. No more reprieves.
Later that night. My mind afire. Anxious edgy racy. I lay in bed contemplating my future. How was I going to pull this off. I needed to quit drinking, but I obviously couldn't stop. And the drinking always led to drugging, making practicing impossible. Something had to give. And this shouldn't have been a hard decision. Quit partying or quit playing tennis for UCLA, for the two were no longer compatible.
Not thinking clearly and with nobody to turn to, I started talking crazy to myself. I started bullshitting myself, saying I didn't need UCLA to play good tennis. I got good on my own. Who needed a coach? I got good on my own without one. Who needed a scholarship? I had money now. I'll just turn pro and go play the tour, get my Saudi Princes to sponsor me. Yeah, this was way better. I could live a normal college life, take classes in the afternoon, the classes I should have been taking all along. Hell, maybe I'll even double major now. Yeah, that's it. I'll show them. Fuck this college tennis stuff. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe it was too much to do both. I could play on my own and make it work. That's it. And I'll tell Coach tomorrow before practice that UCLA tennis just wasn't for me anymore.
And with my mind made up, I made the short walk down to my fraternity to get myself a beer and tell everybody about my bold new plan of quitting UCLA tennis to turn pro.
Yet once again, that beer
turned in to beers, and then shots, and drugs, and more drugs and complete and total annihilation again. And morning came. And
morning passed. And I was too coked out to even call Coach and quit the team. Instead, I sat in a dark room with a bunch of strangers, a large mirror before me, with piles of cocaine upon it. I was in a group, but I'd never felt more alone, adrift from my home, my family, my life and myself. The tennis professional I'd dreamed my whole life of becoming now hung by a thread, my life now lost in a haze of drugs and alcohol in a body and mind I felt little control over and even less understanding.
And as day turned to night, I lay alone in this strange house. The drugs gone, the strangers too. I began to walk the halls, looking room to room for a phone. Eventually finding one, I called Coach to tell him my decision. It was already late in the evening, I may have woke him up. But Coach didn't need to hear much from me. He knew I was no longer interested in playing tennis
for UCLA. The
conversation was short and tense, lacking any sense of concern or closure. He
simply didn't sign on for this, whatever this had become.
And as I hung up the phone, a sadness and emptiness enveloped me. I started scouring the strange house, looking for something, anything, to make me feel better, or different, or just not feel at all. And I stood there in the kitchen, all alone, quiet, vulnerable, raw. Nineteen years old and completely out of control, with a serious drug habit, now saddled with the guilt that beneath all my bravado, I knew deep down in my heart that I just blown a huge opportunity. That everything I had worked so hard for my whole life, to be able to play tennis for UCLA.
I'd just thrown it all
away...
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