chapetr 21 uci magic bus and bad break

Coach's rejection stung. Like with most disappointments, my default response was to play the victim, blaming whomever I could for my misfortunes. But I could only deny my role in matters for so long. There was a common denominator to all my life's dysfunction and it was me, with important institutions like JDC and UCLA tennis, to say nothing of my family no longer wanting me around. 

With time short, if I wanted to play in the Fall I needed to get on it. I made a few calls to some major programs like Pepperdine and Berkeley, but they had little money and even less interest. Dejected but not defeated, I trudged on, reaching out to Greg Patton at UC Irvine in hopes he'd give me a shot.

I'd met Greg as high school senior, finding him one of the more charismatic and passionate people in all of tennis. Agreeing to meet me at his house one afternoon, I hustled down there, my college tennis future hanging in the balance. After exchanging pleasantries, Coach Patton cut right to the chase. 

He mentioned all the rumors of my drug abuse and that he'd heard I was having problems. I countered with that was all in the past now and I was doing better. Unconvinced, he pushed further. He asked if I was sure and that he couldn't bring a drug problem on to his squad and how important team chemistry was to him. I assured him again I was doing better and how refreshing having a cohesive team to play for sounded and that my team at UCLA was a pretty toxic mess at times. Satisfied, he talked a little bit about himself and his goals for Irvine and beyond. Then came my chance. He had an opening but he didn't have any money for me. I told him I wasn't looking for anything like that. I was just hoping for a chance to get back to playing.

We then started talking tennis. He said he saw my results at Ojai, that reports of my demise were premature. I told him I'd been trying but there was only so much I could do on my own, that I wasn't a junior anymore and what I was  doing wasn't working and most importantly, I needed the structure of a college program to thrive and UCI would be a perfect fit for me. 

Coach Patton liked that. He was high on his team, knowing he was a player short from having possibly his strongest team ever. As we continued to talk, it was becoming clear he needed me almost as much as I needed him.

We talked further, sharing some laughs about the tennis life. He said he would have loved to have me as an Anteater a few years ago when I was winning all those matches. I promised him I wasn't done winning, I just needed a chance. And with that I'd won Coach over. We both got up, shook hands, laughed at the excitement and possibilities before us. But then Coach got serious. I needed to get hustling on my transcripts like right then and there to have any chance of being eligible for Fall.

Driving home, thrilled at the chance of playing college tennis again, I was struck by a wall of dread.  How the hell was I going to swing all this? My grades were a disaster, I was living in my van, I was tapped out financially, the Saudis having packed up and gone home. So much to do, with only weeks to spare.

And I did. My grades were a mess but just on the right side of eligibility. I borrowed money from a friend for my tuition, set up my van for maximum living comfort, and made the move the one hour move south to Orange County to become a member of the UC Irvine Anteaters Men's tennis team.

First day of practice, my second chances tour begun. I was feeling grateful. Lucky even. Most people never get a first chance. Until practice was over. Then I was feeling only pain. It had been some time since I trained anywhere near that hard. It was a hell week that felt like a hell month, the physicality of playing again was going to take some getting used to. 

Compounding my discomfort was I had no place to lay at day's end. Waiting on a student loan to come through, I was still living in my van while showering and grooming in the locker rooms. Worst of all, I couldn't afford my school books yet, having to do my assigned class reading in the bookstore, laying awkwardly on a hard floor in a book aisle, scribbling notes down in a notebook in the most uncomfortable of positions. But there would be no complaining. I was back in school, playing for a new team and a new Coach with an awesome bunch of guys. All discomforts aside, I was determined to make this work no matter what.

Coach Patton was a big fitness guy. He had this ingenious idea of gathering the team two mornings a week at 7:00 a.m. for spirited games of Ultimate Frisbee. To be on time involved waking up at 6:30, not a natural occurrence for my 21 year old self. Living in my van meant no electricity, but I did have an alarm clock. To assure I didn't sleep through conditioning, I would strategically park my van near a public building with an external electricity socket. Seemed like a good idea, until the Irvine PD showed up, bright lights a-shining, interrupting many a night's slumber to see what this van with all the Grateful Dead stickers was doing in their master planned bedroom community of Irvine.

Out one night with a teammate, I shared my stories of near nightly hassling from Irvine's finest, when one of his roommates interrupted, inviting me to sleep on their couch if I wished. He said it wasn't much, but that they did have running water.

They didn't have to ask twice. And their house turned out to be right on the beach of Newport's Balboa Peninsula, a mighty fine upgrade from my over-cramped van. 

And in a brief amount of time, life was falling in to place. I was making new friends in my new town. My loan came through, ending the madness of studying in the book store. Yet most importantly, I was starting to hit the ball well again, finally getting my tennis legs beneath me. And it was against this backdrop I was entered in to my first important college tournament in almost 3 years, the Rolex ITA indoor Championships qualifying, to be held on our home courts at UCI. 

Tournament eve. The draw comes out. The Tennis Gods were in a cruel mood. If I won my first round, I'd play UCLA's top recruit Tim Triguero, fresh off winning the US Open Junior Championships and now being coached by my former coach Glenn Bassett. Would Coach sit on our court? Would he actively coach and root against me?

Match day. Short of a throbbing ache in my leg, I felt pretty good, having gotten myself in to pretty good shape. Triguero and I both got through our first rounds safely, setting up a huge match for me on my first day back playing college tennis.

And sure enough, as we took the court, Coach Bassett sat right down on Tim's bench, settling in for the battle.

Except it didn't start as much of a battle. Rattled by Coach on my court and Triguero bombing serve after serve down upon me, I fell behind 5-0 before breaking a sweat. If I was going to make a match out of this, I needed to dig in and quickly.

Second set gets going. I managed to stay on serve, but was getting no looks to break against his world class serving. And Bassett never moved, animatedly coaching Tim, saying all the same things he used to say to me. 

Trying to hang in there, I saved a bunch of break points to reach a tiebreaker. Down a couple match points in the breaker, I finally made a couple returns, eventually winning the set, where I let out out Lets Fucking Go for the ages, making sure everybody playing within earshot knew I was back and balling again. 

For it had been a long time...

The third set went just like the second, with Tim booming one serve after another with no end in sight. I managed to keep holding too, but not without trouble, saving another handful of match points to reach, what else, another deciding  third set breaker. Approaching three hours in and Coach Bassett had not moved the entire match. And back and forth we went, with me throwing every fiber of my being in to every point. I managed to save a few more match points in the breaker, eight in all, eventually winning 1-6, 7-6, 7-6 without ever breaking Tim's serve once.

Overjoyed with excitement, I ran to the net to shake hands as my new teammates charged the court to congratulate me. Gathering my stuff, I saw Coach Bassett from the corner of my eye heading my way. I started walking his way, tentatively at first, unsure of what to say or how to react. When I got within arms length of Coach, I awkwardly extended my hand to shake his, but he just kept coming, opening his arms up to give me a huge hug, telling me how proud he was of me and what a great effort that was.

And then he asked me to make him a promise...

Withdrawing, I said.. Sure Coach, what do you need? 

He looked me straight in the eye and said.. "Take care of myself. You can do this, but you have to take care of yourself...

I told him I was trying and doing the best I could. To which he said keep it up, before turning away, hurrying off to an adjoining court to mentor another Bruin. 

Coach..same as he ever was...

It was a bittersweet gesture, a brief moment of healing for a situation gone terribly wrong. My heart forever a Bruin, I would have given anything to still be one, yet I just played my heart out to beat a Bruin. What a beautiful confounding crazy fucking game this tennis. 

But because tennis, there was little time for reflection, for I had a doubles match in half an hour.

The doubles went long, three more grueling sets that we toughed out. First day back. Three matches, eight sets, eight hours on court, just like my earliest tournaments in the 12's. But there was little time to relax or celebrate, for I had three more matches scheduled the next day starting bright and early at 8 a.m.

By now it was getting dark and I hurt like hell. My leg throbbing badly, I limped my way up to the trainer, catching him right as he was closing up shop. He put me up on the table. The trainer's table. Second home for the unlucky among us. Up to then, I'd avoided any serious tennis injuries. No tears, no breaks. But with tennis, it was simply a matter of time, for few if any us got away unscathed. 

The trainer asked how I was feeling. I said everything hurt, it just seemed my shin hurt a little bit more than it should. He began his examination by running his finger up the inside of my tibia, pressing firmly in spots. As he worked his way up, every press hurt a little more. Not exactly how I was hoping to warm down after a long day on the courts. As he continued pressing on my shin, about half way up he hit paydirt, the pain so intense I nearly kicked him in the face.

 

Easing off, he asked what was going on when I was playing. I told him it throbbed something fierce but I was able to move fine during the points. Between points though, I dragged the leg around like Quasimodo until the next point started, then I was back to flying around. 

He asked how long I played on it... 

 

I told him close to 8 hours, to which he responded no wonder it hurts, imploring me to stay off that night and telling me to be back here first thing in the morning and he'd get me all taped up.

 

I thanked him, then as I parted, I asked him what he thought it was. 

 

He said he couldn't tell without doing x-rays, but hopefully it was just a bad shin splint.

 

 

Driving home to the beach. Finally a moment to reflect. It had been almost 3 years since my last big win. And though my high flying flame-out from UCLA was known to all, only I knew the full depths to which I'd fallen. The drinking, the drugs, the breakdowns, the dysfunction. I could have so easily packed it in, quitting on myself. But something drove me to keep trying. Deep down, I knew I just needed a break, a bit of good fortune and things could get better. And Coach Patton gave me that, a second chance. And here I was, finally back in the game, seizing on that chance, rising from the depths of drugs and madness.

 

But my leg was a concern. I'd been away from tennis' intensity for some time. I knew playing hurt was part of the game, but this was a different animal. This was pain. Yet in spite of my physical discomfort, the buzz of a great win trumped all other feelings. Always had, always would. I'd learned there were few things in life a good tennis result couldn't cure. But more than anything else, tennis, which I'd loved more than anything my whole life, had become fun again. And it had been some time since I could say that and mean it.

 

I had been all in with our sport from my earliest memories, it was the soundtrack of my early formative life, the source of so much joy yet even more pain. We had a very complicated relationship, tennis and I. But I couldn't quit her, as I was now giddy with excitement at the prospect of another solid run. For if past was prologue, good things happened for me in streaks. And this was the first day of my first tournament back. And as I lay my weary head down, I couldn't wait for the sun to rise on a new day to get at it all over again.

I awoke early the next morning before sunrise, knowing it would take some time to get the oil out of the pan. I headed down to the beach for a warm-up walk, the sun gently rising as young surfers attacked the waves with a passion I could relate. Getting up early to do what you love. But I took some time that morning, to process and reflect, to stay current with myself, for this tennis life moved fast and could be unforgiving. 

 

Arriving on campus, I hobbled my way back toward the gym and the Athletic Department. Entering our office, I saw Coach Patton sitting there. Asking me to come in, he handed me that day's Orange County Register newspaper, and there in big bold print was an article titled The Magic Buss. I'd done an interview the night before, the writer having heard my story and about living in my van. New town, new team, same nickname. It all felt good, to be playing again and part of a team. 

Then Coach handed me another piece of paper. It was a note, saying my Dad had called and to call home.

A wave of concern swept over me. Why was he calling? Was he ok? And how did he even know I was here?

For it had been a couple years since my Dad and I had spoken. It was always awkward with us, our current hiatus just making it more so. Yet I hustled to the phone. When he answered, I asked what's up and if everything was fine. He quickly said yes. Then after a slight pause asked me how I was doing. I immediately got defensive, asking him why did he want to know.

He continued that my grandfather had read in the paper that I was playing college tennis again, but at UC Irvine and that the article said I was living in his old VW van. He asked if that was true. 

I snapped back. No, the guy made the whole fucking thing up. Yeah its true or was true. I was living in it, but I found a place now and am back in school at Irvine playing college tennis again.

He asked how I was paying for all this. I told him I wasn't, I was borrowing money from everybody and sleeping on a friend's couch. 

There was a noticeable pause from my Dad. What direction this conversation was going to go, I literally had no idea.

Then the peace offering. He asked if I needed help to which I snapped... What kind of fucking help and does it come with more asinine ultimatums?

He countered with He wasn't ok reading about me living in his old van.

It always came back to how everything made him look...

I told him I was just trying to survive, doing whatever I had to do, to which he responded he knew what I was trying to do and that they wanted to help me financially. He then asked if I had a job.

Then I snapped. Of course I didn't have a fucking job. You know what this life is like. 

He tried to get me to calm down, saying they only wanted to help.. 

 Then the floodgates opened. I went on a rant, about needing help and how I didn't know how I was going to pay for school the next quarter and I owe people money and half the time I'm hitching rides because I can't afford gas and its fucking ridiculous trying to live this way and of course I could use help and I'm tired all the time and where the fuck did you guys go, why did you guys cut out on me like this?

My Dad tried to calm me, but it wasn't working. I hurried off the phone to get ready for my match. But we agreed I would come to the house to talk after the tournament for Sunday dinner. 

It was a lot to take on, but the offer of help was timely. There was no way I was going to make it through the next couple years scrambling like I was.

 

Everything sore and taped up, I downed a stomach churning dose of ibuprofen and set back out toward the courts. The walk from the gym to the UCI courts covered a gorgeously manicured multi-acre grass field without a bad lie on it. Behind a giant row of trees, the sun rose, stretching long shadows across the lawn. The dark. The light. And for once I didn't feel like I needed to hide, that I could stand proudly in the light, no longer ashamed of what I was doing and what I'd become. 

 

Now standing tall, full of pride and confidence. I'd fought my way back. Down a set and two breaks, I'd worked my way out of trouble. That it was possible to emerge from adversity, that future moments of walking in the light were attainable if I simply didn't give up. And though my return to playing wasn't happening on a world stage (Most comebacks don't), there were no film crews nor cameras rolling, this was my own miniseries, a protracted battle of overcoming, a battle I had been losing badly for several years now. 

 

And as I paused a moment before heading down to the courts I was overcome with emotion. I was proud of myself for the first time in so long. And as I stood there, reflective and grateful, I was filled with all the good vibrations a person could stand as I began my walk to the courts for another day of battle, feeling there was no way on Earth I could lose that day, for it was a mere skirmish in a far larger war that in many important ways I'd already won.
 

I received a warm welcome from my peers and the coaches, the feeling of acceptance buoying my spirits even further. With my leg throbbing something fierce, I cut my warm-up short, going straight to my match. I had a tough opponent in the morning, yet played about as well as I could, winning quickly and with emphasis, that yesterday was not a fluke and that I had plans on sticking around.

 

Next round was a rough one, against future NCAA champion and top 100 tour player Robbie Weiss, coached by American tennis great Allen Fox of Pepperdine. Weiss was a grinder extraordinaire, not an  ideal match up for me and my gimpy leg. But I was all in with this tournament, I'd deal with the aches and pains later when it was over. 

 

I started fast, winning a long first set, then lost an equally long and tough second set. As we entered our third set and third hour of grinding, my leg pain reached new levels of discomfort. Yet I played as hard as I could, overly jacked on the body's natural adrenaline and endorphins as well as a self-induced sense of purpose. And I continued to battle, racing out to a 4-1 40-0 lead with all kinds of chances to win another big match. But sadly, the old demons of doubt returned. I wasn't match tough enough yet and he was. And I got tight and he didn't, with Robbie eventually grinding me down in a tight third set 5-7, 6-4, 6-4 in another three hours. 

 

Singles concluded, I limped my way through a doubles defeat. With the tournament finally over, I earned myself a couple days of well deserved rest, but more importantly, a doctor's appointment with  UCI's head orthopedist first thing Monday morning.

 

Driving home Sunday evening. Family reconciliation time. What could go wrong? Inches from a clean getaway, yet I kept getting pulled back. Because family. I walked in to my house to my parents, sitting quietly at the dinner table. Hobbling to the dinner table to meet them, my Father inquired about my limp. Not quite ready to go in to details, I told him I played a lot of tennis last couple days.

 

He responded he saw that I'd beaten that kid from UCLA, then asked if that coach of mine was there. 

 

I said he was and that he stayed on the court the whole match.

Dad rolled his eyes, asking if Bassett said anything to me after the match. 

 

I said he did. He told me he was proud of me and asked me to promise him I'd take care of myself. 

 

To which my Father became alarmed, asking if I was ok and if something had happened to me. 

 

I said a lot has happened to me and you guys would know that if you hadn't bailed out, but I'm doing ok now.

Not satisfied, he continued to press, accusing me of not telling them everything and as my parents they had a right to know. 

 

To which I snapped, telling them they were absolutely right, there's a lot I wasn't telling them and excuse me for being a little distant but this whole we're going to help you thing is on serious trial basis for I don't trust either one of you right now.

 

Dad countered they weren't terribly thrilled with me either, and that my life's been a bit of a mess the last few years to which I agreed, that it hadn't been pretty but that I'm doing better and that I'm trying  hard right now to get back on track and that I'm doing fine. 

 

To which my Dad countered that I'm not doing well if I'm broke 

 

To which I said no, I'm actually in debt.

And back and forth we went. Both of us emptying are our magazines, resentments spilling out on the table between us. Polluting the air in hopes of clearing it. When did that ever work? So much mistrust. So much fear. A lot of time had passed. We sought common ground. They had nothing to say about what I was doing. The classes I was taking, the major I pursued, whatever career path I might have been on. Nor the tennis too. They had nothing to offer besides financial support. If I didn't need it, I wouldn't have been there. But I needed it badly. Hence I sat and took it.

We sat together over dinner reminiscing, both parties cautious. I was 21 years old and getting reacquainted with my parents. That's just wrong. But over the night, we all calmed down. My father seemingly happy to have his son back in the loop again. Talking talking talking. 

We eventually talked finances. They agreed to help out fully, no conditions, no ultimatums, the support I needed to make this work. I began my hobble back to my car, my Dad by my side. Moments like these were tough for us. Our feelings so jaded, not capable of directing the action. We had no standard good-bye. No hugging ritual or handshake routine. I awkwardly put my hand out to shake is. His hand met mine. It was weird, and sad, but for now, the best we were going to do as I got in the Van, his van, and set off to back to Irvine.

 

I met my orthopedist first thing the next morning about my leg. After some small talk, he put me on the table and like my trainer, ran his finger up my shin bone. And just like with my trainer, I nearly kicked his teeth out when he hit the hot spot. They took x-rays, but they came back inconclusive. It was now time for a bone scan. My doctor prepped the syringe of the radioactive tracer, injecting it in to my arm. And as the plunger sank, my heart sank with it. Something was seriously wrong with my leg. This wasn't a shin splint.

 

The procedure went quickly. I was told to return later in the day for the results and I did. Waiting nervously, my Doctor walked in and immediately put my test results on the screen and began pointing to the activity around my shin. I asked what it was. He said my leg was on fire. I told him it felt like it and what exactly did that mean. He explained to me that I had a stress fracture and a bad one. He pointed to the x-rays, explaining to me all the radioactive injection travels toward adverse bone activity, tumors, fractures, abnormal growth. All around the spot on my shin he pressed upon.

I tried to joke with him, asking if it was possible I was having a late growth spurt. He got serious. The break was in a bad spot and might not heal quickly. He asked about my tournament and when it started hurting and how long I played on it.  I told him right in the beginning, that I probably played 15 hours of tournament tennis on it.

 

Taken back, he asked how could you have played 15 hours on a broken leg. I told him I didn't know it was broken. He asked didn't it hurt. I said yeah, it was fucking killing me, but it was my first tournament back and I was doing well so I tried to block it out. 

 

Something I had a lot of training at, blocking out my reality.

 

He told me to be really careful the next 6 weeks and do no weight bearing activities and lets see if it'll heal up, imploring me to think about the big picture. That it was just one tournament and I had a future to think about and not to blow it over one tennis match.

I thanked him for his time. Leaving, I thought about what he said. that it was just a tennis match. But it was never just a tennis match for me. It was always so much more. And as I was handed a card for my return appointment in 6 weeks, my heart sank as the magnitude of the moment of what I had done to myself began to settle in. Everything I had worked so hard to get back  was in serious jeopardy.

I returned to see him 6 weeks later. My leg still felt terrible as they took the standard x-rays. And as he put them up against the light, I gasped at a deep crack half way across my tibia. I knew it wasn't healing, but this was a gut punch.

My Doctor sensed my dejection, telling me how sorry he was and that he was afraid of this. He said its going to take some time to heal, and that if I came back too fast I'll continue to stress it, that even in a couple more months, the x-rays could be negative the muscles around the leg won't be strong enough to support the kind of demanding activity tennis required but let's make another appointment two months out, change up your cast to a walking boot and hope for the best and just try to baby it as best I could. And with that he spun out of the office, wishing me luck and imploring me to hang in there.

I would spend much of the next year in that cast. Of course I didn't listen to him. It was now or never for my tennis. Or at least it felt that way. I would try to play several times over the next couple months, desperate to play for my new team before my eligibility ran out. But my leg never had a chance and just like my Doctor said, it got worse within days. I'd done a number on it. It was going to take time to heal, more time than my college tennis career would permit.

And with that, my college tennis career was over. I would like to say I handled the bad news with maturity and resolve, but that's not how I dealt with adversity back then. Back then I went on benders. Bad ones. The competitive pilot light that once burned so fiercely from within, to better myself, went out that day at the Doctors. It was more than I was capable of handling at the time. I simply lacked the proper foundation to support myself through tougher times. And my life soon got messy. And quickly. Booze, drugs, food, smoking. The decline was rapid. Without the structure of a college tennis program, I reverted back to my worse instincts yet further magnified by the progressiveness of my illness. 

And I was 21 years old, with few life skills and even less ambition, facing a highly uncertain future I was ill equipped to understand or navigate, as feeding my worse instincts became an everyday obsession, complicating the next stretch of my life to levels once thought unimaginable.