Chapter 12: Camp.

June 1982: Vic Braden Tennis Academy, Coto De Caza, Ca. Junior Davis Cup tryouts.  

The Davis Cup. The original team tennis. One of professional tennis' most lauded events, an international competition pitting nations against nations since the beginning of time. Each country fielding its best players. Bring the Davis Cup home and you're a national hero. But that was for the big boys, the guys on TV. We were Davis Cup for the junior set.

The Vic Braden Tennis Academy. Vic Braden, the original celebrity coach, the Philosopher King of our sport. He taught the teachers. Most tennis pros coaching DNA traces back to Vic Braden. And there he was, ten feet in front of me, welcoming us all to his state of the art teaching facility. Important things were happening here, for Vic was also on the cutting edge of sports science. And those of us invited here to camp were all to get a high speed photography session with him of all our shots. Cool I thought. From having no coach to our sport's ultimate coach in the blink of an eye.

Seated with my fellow campers, I looked about me.  There were pictures on the walls of America's greatest players (picture) Ashe, Smith, Gerulaitis, McEnroe, Connors. All in their USA jackets, all playing Davis Cup. I was surrounded by America's top 36 junior tennis players, America's next wave. Aaron Krickstein, Richie Reneberg, Jim Grabb, Jim Pugh, Kelly Jones, Lawson Duncan, Tim Pawsat, Larry Scott. By week's end, a lucky few of us would walk out of here the latest members of the United States Junior Davis Cup Team, wearing with pride the letters USA on our backs.  

The kids about me all knew each other well. Rivals foes friends enemies, either from the same sections or from the national scene. These guys had been battling each other since their first tournaments. And though I barely knew any of them, I did know a lot about them. I knew their stats, their rankings, their results, probably as well if not better as they did.

But I wasn't part of anyone's history. Being the latest of bloomers, I missed out on these lifelong rivalries. And maybe that was a blessing. I struggled enough with my current rivalries. But I knew them all by name, the titles they had won, their records against each other. I looked up to them all, their accomplishments at my sport leaving me in awe. For the great ones, they had a glow about them.

The gloss of the elite competitor. Did I have it? Did I make even the slightest impression? In a room of Alpha Dogs, I felt a Zeta. They seemed to look at me, then down at me, then through me. Did I even belong here? I felt imposter syndrome setting in. These guys were invited to camp because they won national championships. I was here by petition. And kids could be mean, one kid asking me how many guys had to get hurt for me to get invited?

At the youngest of age it got branded on my mind that I wasn't as good as them. Because I wasn't. I was at the bottom of tennis' food chain. Always looking up. These top kids the sharks, the whales, all prized wins for lowly ranked me. I was a minnow, plankton, a bad loss for their talented selves. This was an accomplished cocky crew. The opposite of me. They had the rankings, the titles, the sponsorships, the pedigree. They were the best tennis players America's tennis boom  produced. I had had a good month. But today, we all sat together, everybody sizing each other up. This was no place for shrinking, yet I lacked the ego to fit the room.

The stakes were high here. Making Junior Davis Cup meant an all expenses paid summer of travel and tourneys with the top coaches of the USTA accompanied by the nation's top dozen players, competing mostly in junior events, with a couple professional events slipped in. We would be a traveling team of individuals, competing essentially against ourselves, with the best of the team receiving wild cards into the US Open Men's Qualifying.

Yet the cherry on top of all the tennis was the clothes. Free gear from head to toe, all with the JDC logos on the front and the prestigious letters USA on the back. Just like all my Olympic heroes as well as my American tennis heroes who played Davis Cup for the United States of America. 

The guys with the USA gear. They stood out. You watched them. Stared at them. Wanted to be like them, or better yet, one of them. All of them, walking around like they were somebody, because they were, they were our country's best. And here I was, against all imaginable odds, with a last second long shot chance of becoming one of them.

Though I was the last guy invited, I had a couple things going for me. Being signed sealed and delivered to play at UCLA was a huge stress relief. But more importantly, my confidence was sky high, having won three significant events leading up to Camp. Add in the tryouts were being played on the same slow gritty hard courts in the hot dry SoCal conditions I trained in daily the past four years, and I had as much of a home court advantage a junior tennis player could ever want.

But I arrived at Camp with a cloud overhead. Things were tense at home. With all my success, I'd begun running with a fast crowd. My best buddy Kelly had a girlfriend. She was a Wellman, granddaughter to Hollywood legend William Wellman of A Star is Born Fame. Kelly's best guy friend was a Medavoy, son to Michael Medavoy, co-founder of red hot Orion Pictures back in the day. I had been spending my weekends away from home, partying throughout West LA with my new found friends.

On weekends, the Medavoy's would host movie night at their home. One evening, waiting for a bathroom, the door opened and peak 1982 Goldie Hawn walked out, giving me a huge smile and a robust hello. Star struck, I could barely go to the bathroom. Gathering myself, I exited the bathroom only to  walk straight in to peak 1982 Jack Nicholson, waiting impatiently for his turn. It was culture shock on steroids. One late night at the Medavoys, I crashed on the living room couch only to be awakened in the morning by a tap on the foot. It was Senator Chris Dodd of Connecticut, telling me to get ready, for I was his partner that morning for doubles at the Riviera. 

The juxtaposition of my parent's lives to my emerging one was surreal. Sitting around the dinner table, I would describe all the famous people I was meeting and all the new experiences I was having and all the exciting plans for the weekend. My FOMO was off the chart. Yet my Dad, unable to share in the excitement, stuck to his grounded comeback that I wasn't missing anything as I tore out the door, return time unknown, as my parents settled in for another night of wine, coffee, smokes and the remote control. 

And maybe he was right, but I had to find out for myself... The people you'll meet in Los Angeles. They'll change your life

But the dynamic had changed on the home front. All the attention from my recent tennis success made my parents uncomfortable. And Dad wasn't having any of it. After signing with UCLA, my parents had Coach Glenn Bassett over to our house for dinner. We talked tennis, and more tennis. Eventually the conversation swung around to academics. Coach asked me what I wanted to major in. I said I was interested in Mathematics or possibly going Pre-Med. Bassett, without pause, said he'd rather I not do that for it would take too much time away from my tennis. My Mother almost fainted. She had a pie in the oven she was baking for dessert. Instead, after dinner was done, she cleared the table quickly and escorted Coach to the door. She couldn't get him out of our house any quicker. Asking later why they rushed him out so, they both said they couldn't stand him and that I'd made a terrible decision. And then went on about their evening like dinner never happened.

So in spite of playing my best tennis ever, I brought a little baggage with me to Coto De Caza.  After orientation, the Coaches unveiled the schedule and it was brutal. Thirty-six players divided into 4 groups of nine. Two matches a day for the first 4 days. We would play everyone in our flight once, but that was just the tennis part. For each day would start with a two mile run and end with lung-busting agility drills. Just the thought of it all gave me anxiety.

Match day. Thirty-six players, all pumped and primed and ready to go and I get off to a great start, winning a couple three setters against some tough customers. Long ass first day at the office. A run, two long matches, with brutal line drills to top it off. After dinner, I limped my battered body back to my room, thinking how on Earth was I going to survive three more days in a row like this. 

Heading straight for the Jacuzzi, I heard tennis balls being crushed off in the distance. Curious, I peaked around the corner to see who it was and to my disbelief, I saw my opponent from the morning out there with the coaching staff doing late night drills like it was his first hit of the day. What the hell, I thought? Were these guys nuts? He played the same amount of tennis I did that day and I could barely walk and he's still out there grinding. Were these guys really in that much better shape than me? Or were they hungrier and simply wanted it more and should I have been out there too grinding right along side them?

Day two. The run felt tougher, my matches ran longer. Two more three setters. With no tie-breakers in the third, I pulled out a couple marathons, the last one going long, 10-8 in the third after being in all sorts of trouble. Four matches in, I was off to a great start. 

Later that night, I gave a call to home to report the good news, yet I was met with sheer indifference, my Father responding like I told him I was going out to get the mail. Just didn't seem all that interested. Hurrying off the phone, he said to give a call at week's end and let them know how it went. With no desire to deal with another round of  Dad, I lumbered off to the hot tub, hoping to get some feeling back in to my legs.

Day three. I walked through the run, trying to conserve energy for the big day ahead, but not without catching a few glances and barbs from the Coaches along the way. Yet I proceeded to play my best tennis of the week, winning two more tough matches, putting me solidly in first place of my group.  Two more wins the next day and it was going to be tough to keep me off the team.

I tried to get out of the after match agility drills, claiming injury. The coaches came back with if you're too injured to train, you're too injured to compete. So to the courts I hobbled. Tension between the staff and myself was already emerging, the whole team-think concept foreign to me. The coaches rode me hard during the drills, chastising me to push harder and to redo certain drills I dogged it on. With so much on the line, this was no time to take a stand. So I bit my lip and sucked it up, but this was only day three of my junior tennis life having a legitimate coach and I was already pretty over it.

Day four. Tight at the magnitude of the day, yet super motivated and to my good fortune, my opponents barely showed up. I cruised to a couple easy wins, wrapping up an undefeated week at 8-0 and first place in my group. Not clear on the format, I thought I had made the team. But not so fast said the USTA. They wanted to see a little more. We would get the weekend off, but starting Monday, there would be a play off to determine who would make the team. Eight wins in four days and I'd accomplished nothing. JDC just became JFC. 

But what a week. Tennis without distractions. No parents, no coaches, no girls, no partying, no night life, no anything. Just tennis, tennis and more tennis. We were embedded. Housed in the dorms with other tennis players, talking about tennis and more tennis, yet after a week, I needed a break from it all. 

Living only an hour away, the Coaches allowed me to go home for the weekend. Not sure if that was a good decision, by them or me, but one week embedded with the tennis all the time crew and I already needed a time-out. I arrived home to blank stares and general apathy from the folks. In no mood to fight, I spent the weekend at a friend's doing what I did with my friends back then, sitting around drinking beer, smoking a lot of pot, and just getting stupidly wasted for no good reason. And Friday soon became Saturday and Saturday soon became Sunday, odd timing to go on a bender with so much at stake on Monday.

 
Sunday night, I'm still partying and it hits me. Shit, I have a match in 12 hours and I hadn't hit a ball all weekend. And I didn't have any old match. I was up against the fittest hardest working guy in all of junior tennis, fellow undefeated division winner and future top 50 professional Lawson Duncan, the guy I feared playing the most, because he was going to keep me out there all day.

I rolled back in to camp the next morning pretty hungover but still somewhat impervious to the negative effects of alcohol and drugs on my ability to play good tennis. And as the match started on another hot scorching SoCal summer's day, I settled in for the longest match of my junior career, eventually grinding Lawson down 11-9 in the third in over 4 hours.

Physically finished, there were still two matches to play against the other division champs. Thinking I had a spot on the team secured now, I promptly tanked my afternoon match, much to the consternation of the coaching staff. 

The next morning I could barely move. I tanked my second match in a row, retiring after a set. I was done. I had played all I was going to play. I hobbled back to my room to get some rest, passed out, and awoke to a message the coaching staff wanted to see me. Oh shit. 

The coaches sat me down to talk to me about my behavior. They loved my tennis but not the tanking.  

Which player would they be getting? 

Concerned that I'd be representing the United States, tanking would not be tolerated. After much discussion, I walked out of the meeting sick to my stomach that I might have blown my opportunity. But for once, my play took precedent over my behavior. Later that evening, the Coaches called me back to their room where I was offered a spot on the 1982 United States Junior Davis Cup Team, to which I proudly and most excitedly accepted.   

Great news in hand, it was time to call home. And though things hadn't been great of late, nothing eased the tensions in our relationship better than a good tennis result. Dad picked up the phone and I immediately jumped in, detailing my long grueling win over Duncan and how I made the team because of it, yet deadpan, without even a congratulations, my Dad asked how I did in my other matches.  

I quickly glossed over the couple losses, saying they didn't matter because I'd already made the team and I continued on telling him about the USA clothes and how excited I was and that I likely had a wild card in to the US Open qualifying when he stopped me mid sentence and asked "Why did you lose?"

Taken back, I stammered something dismissive again about how the matches didn't matter and started back on my stream of all the great things this meant for my summer going forward when he stopped me again asking..."What do you mean they didn't matter, why did you lose those matches?" 

And back came rushing all those feelings of shock and shame I hadn't felt in some time as a wave of utter disbelief crashed over me at what I was being asked, yet how powerless I was to do anything about it as I assumed my role in that sicko crazy punishing father son love dance we did, where nothing was ever good enough, no matter how hard I tried or how well I did. Nothing. I got off the phone as quickly as possible, and it was then I had my first moment of clarity regarding my Dad and my family of origin, that continuing to go to him for any sense of support or approval was a dry well and just never going to happen.

 If I needed feelings of approval, I was going to have to generate them for myself by myself, and as an already damaged 17 year old alcoholic/addict in training, that would be a heavy lift. But my Father's reaction aside, in my gut I knew I had achieved something significant those two weeks at JDC Camp, something I was determined to not let my father diminish with some ill-placed words. 

For I wasn't a little kid anymore. I'd been playing tennis for myself by myself for some time now, and  as much as I wanted his approval, the challenge for myself going forward was to not let him define me or my achievements any longer. And as I pulled my 65 VW bug back on to the long winding road home back through Trabuco Canyon, I lit up a joint and put on The Grateful Dead's Dark Star as loud as my rickety little cassette player could handle. 

I cruised through the canyon's curves grooving away, easing my way back on to the highway, back to home, back to all that reality, feeling a sense of satisfaction born from accomplishment, a feeling I'd been fortunate to experience quite a lot lately. And as the sun set behind the brown rolling hills, the music taking me higher and higher, my head and heart over flowing with wave upon wave of pride for what I had just done. 

And I felt a sense of serenity envelop me. Against all odds, I was doing really well in my strange evolving world, a feeling I could really get used to experiencing.