Feat of Clay

Tennis is a solitary sport when you’re playing it. Watching it however, is a different story – whether you’re in the stadium or on your couch, there’s a feeling of camaraderie, of union when you see a packed stadium. Seeing players running around on Philippe Chatrier, a court made five times larger by the absence of people, throws a body slightly off-kilter. It’s weird. It’s lonely. There is no wall of sound. The communal gasps and cries of excitement and groans of exasperation are gone, replaced by the silent nods and occasional clapping of physios and coaches – the only ones allowed to watch – and masked ballboys and ballgirls, linesmen and the referee. It’s weird, and it’s sad, and it’s all my fault.

I jinxed Paris, because I broke my own rules.

I try never to tell anyone about my plans. At most I will be vague about it, because I believe aspirations can be ill-wished by a malevolent wind. You don’t have to tell me how batty that sounds, Le Hubs says it often enough. Still, I’m weirdly superstitious about some things, so I play my cards close to my chest, and only let on what I’m about when it’s all a fait accompli.

But early this year, I told Paulie I was going to France.

The words “I’ll be in Paris in May!” flew out of my wayward mouth. I couldn’t help myself, I was too excited. The airfare had been booked and paid for, Le Hubs had been suitably convinced it was a good idea to tag along with a tennis-mad, Rafael Nadal fangirl of a wife, and this was to be the year I would finally get to stalk see the Raging Bull on the terre battue of Roland Garros. Getting to meet with Paulie, who lives a stone’s throw away from Paris (Switzerland, but what’s one train ride) after a decade would’ve been the cherry on top.

So I blabbed about it. And the universe heard me.

The universe heard, the gates of hell opened, and in clopped the first donkey of the apocalypse, braying for all it was worth. Hello, Covid-19! I am an idiot.

And that was how I ended up in a Bobcaygeon river bunkie, watching the 2020 French Open on TSN.

You, Me, and a Little Yellow Ball

You, Me, and a Little Yellow Ball

“Tennis is the sport in which you talk to yourself. No athletes talk to themselves like tennis players. Pitchers, golfers, goalkeepers, they mutter to themselves, of course, but tennis players talk to themselves – and answer. In the heat of a match, tennis players look like lunatics in a public square, ranting and swearing and conducting Lincoln-Douglas debates with their alter egos. Why? Because tennis is so damned lonely.”
– Andre Agassi, Open

Someone once told me she thought tennis was a boring sport. While tennis may very well look like giant ping-pong from a beginner’s point of view, to fully appreciate the game – any game, really – one simply needs to understand how it works. That’s the great thing about tennis. Like basketball, it’s ridiculously simple.

So, the basics.

The rules: the ball cannot bounce more than once. The ball must stay inside the lines. When serving, the ball must bounce within the specified service box, and the server is only given two chances to get it right (three, if the ball clips the top of the net). A point is won if:

– the ball goes out of bounds
– the ball goes into the net
– the ball bounces twice, or
– the player cannot return the ball.

The surfaces: tennis has three. Grass, clay, and hardcourt. Each surface impacts ball striking, movement and ball bounce differently, requiring the player to make adjustments to his or her technique. It also necessitates the use of warm-up events, called tournaments, that lead up to major tournaments (majors), which are also called Grand Slams.

The majors: tennis has four. The Australian Open (Asia-Pacific/hardcourt), The French Open (Europe/clay), Wimbledon (Europe/grass) and the US Open (America/hardcourt). A player’s ranking depends on the number of tournaments he/she wins. The bigger the tournament, the bigger the prize money and the number of ranking points earned. To defend their ranking, players must  either have the same results that they had the previous year, or earn more points than they did, for a higher ranking.

Game, set, match: a game is three points and a set has six games. The first player to win six games wins the set, provided the opponent is two games behind (i.e., 6-4). If both players win six games apiece with neither two games behind, the set is decided by a tie-break. A match, for men, requires best of three sets at the ATP 250 and Masters 1000 level. For Grand Slams, they play best of five. A match for women, regardless of tour level, is always best of three.

Best of all, in tennis, there is no team to rely on. There is no one else to pass a ball, a baton, a pigskin, or a puck to. There is no safety net. Boxing may be as solitary, but even in boxing, you have people in your corner, the guys who bring you water and wipe you down,  smear ointment on your lacerations, push you back into the centre of the ring, reminding you it’s not over until it’s over. You don’t get that in professional tennis. It’s a mostly solitary sport that demands utmost accountability. In tennis, if you fail, it is through no one’s fault but your own.

Tennis requires focus, willpower, courage and stamina. Most of all, it is a sport that requires control. Control of yourself, of your body, of your mind, and control of the ball. The player who controls the ball the best, is the one who wins the most. Think of the myriad different ways you can flick your wrist or twist your arm, rotate your torso, angle your body, stretch your legs. All of this in the quest to direct that little yellow orb. Where do you want it to go? What do you want it to do? What do you intend to create? Carve a laser down the line? Blast an explosion cross court? Draw a graceful arc in the sky to push an opponent back? Pull him forward with a short ball? Go right when he expects you to go left? The possibilities are endless.

There is nothing quite like watching two tennis players striving to out-think, outdo and outlast each other across the net, in a physically punishing environment, stopping short of actually drawing blood. When tennis is played by the best of the best, it is breathtaking. Suspenseful, Exciting. Brutal. Merciless. Graceful. Magical. Nuanced. And yet, at the end of it all, the players are expected to meet each other across the net, and shake hands civilly, to pretend they didn’t just spend the last few hours trying to grind each other into the dust – because yes, in tennis, your behaviour matters too. Players have gotten fined for bad behaviour, for smashing their rackets, for using foul language and abusing the referees.

There is so much more to tennis than running from side to side trying to hit a ball across the net. Tennis, boring? Not on your young, beautiful life.

Summertime (and the eatin’ is easy)

Summertime (and the eatin’ is easy)

And I was thinking this summer was going to be a bore. It’s been so hot, and the humidity is out the wazoo. I was spending quite a few weekends in because I’m a vampire and allergic to all that sun and UV rays. I’ve also had my share of humidity growing up in the tropics. As someone who’s already aging disgracefully, I don’t need any more help from this weather.

Just goes to show one must never say never, especially not when one’s favourite tennis player is in town for the Rogers Cup, aka The Canadian Open – the only ATP Masters 1000 event held in the great white north, one of the go-to warmup events for players to prepare for the hardcourt season which culminates in the US Open, and I’m pretty sure if you don’t follow tennis, none of that jumble of words will mean anything to you. So before you decide to just click somewhere else, here you go:

That was two weekends ago. In a heat wave. I braved a heatwave for that. If it weren’t for going to see Rafael Nadal practice on the hardcourts of the Aviva Centre for free, I would never get any sun. And now I’m kicking myself for not getting tickets to see the finals, because he’s just made his way into the finals of the Rogers Cup for the first time in a while. He’s also going to face the hottest thing on the #NextGen circuit right now, the Greek Stefanos Tsitsipas who is having the run of his life!

Speaking of mouthwatering and speaking of Greece, I’ve been to Taste of the Danforth, practically a Toronto summertime institution, a few times now and have no idea how I missed out on the awesomeness that is Foodland’s fruit stand. Just juicy, beautiful fresh fruit on a stick begging to be eaten – and at a price that can’t be beat. Large wedges of watermelon and mangoes to be had (extra sriracha $1), but my favourite by far were the strawberry skewers, which get a lovely amount of chocolate drizzled on them. It is HEAVEN. Five fresh, plump, juicy strawberries with chocolate on them for $2? YES PLEASE, YES, NOW, HURRY! All caps and exclamation points because that’s how much I love them. I used to go for the lokoumades, but now I will go for strawberry skewers, hands down, the end, exit stage right.

PS:

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Internet Sausage Links

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@MilkcowCanada, via Instagram

Japan, a country that has gifted us with the truly grotesque and the truly inspired, has also produced a perfect example of the unholy union of grotesque and inspired: watermelon ice cream sandwiches. South Korean ice cream chain Milkcow has taken the idea and run with it. Now that they’re in town, I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, the kind that precedes the realization that I’m about to join another hour-long queue just to have one of these, even though part of me thinks it’s a horrible idea and harbinger of the apocalypse. Why do I have to be so damn susceptible to attractive packaging? – Blog TO

Speaking of grotesque and inspired (but really more grotesque and sad) this story of a mother giving her son her blessing with the aid of a bullet is somehow tragic, darkly comic and proof that you don’t mess with old people, because they’ve run out of fucks to give  – CNN

Those poor kids. This is why I confine my spelunking to the insides of my refrigerator – CTV News

Speaking of spelunking, take a deep dive into the life and times of one Johnny Depp. It’s a long read and mostly interesting journey into the unpredictable unknown, and unlike exploring a Thai cave in the middle of monsoon season, it’s an adventure you’re likely to survive. Yes, I would like to apologize to the trapped boys in the Thai cave for the completely tone deaf jumble of words I just wrote – Rolling Stone

I was there for the match, I was there for the book, and now I’m there for its in-depth documentary, released in honour of the 10-year (it’s been 10 years?) anniversary of the match and the 150th anniversary of the All England Lawn Tennis Club, home of venerable Wimbledon. Someday Wimbledon, someday… for now,  Strokes of Genius: Federer, Nadal and the Greatest Match Ever Played is $10.99 on iTunes, with a few bonus extras – Sports Illustrated

 

The Pink Panther

I’ve always been one for a good throwback. I don’t know about you, but Rafael Nadal going sans sleeves and all body-ody-ody at this year’s Australian Open is making me feel things. The last time he went sleeveless was in 2008, tearing through the men’s draw in that swashbuckling pirate look. No sleeves, long shorts, and somehow he made it work.

He still does.

Nike has our dear Rafa revisiting the sleeveless look but ditching the long shorts. It’s decidedly more mature but somehow more compelling because he’s all grown up and filled out and who cares what’s going down on the tennis court with biceps like that? 

I mean come ON.

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Sheht pare, hijo de. You can barely even notice that ungodly combination of dove gray and highlighter pink.

Today I have reduced my favourite tennis player from a hugely talented athlete to a walking piece of very meaty beef. But, eh. The best things in life are free.

Double Trouble

I’m making up for missing out on the Laver Cup by going through their Twitter. I wish I’d gone to Prague.

Coached by a legend (Bjorn Borg!), led by legends (Roger Federer! Rafael Nadal!), Team Europe’s victory was pretty much assured. It’s hard to face a team with two up and comers in Misha Zverev and Dominic Thiem, stalwart top tenners Tomas Berdych and Fernando Verdasco, and the aforementioned Fedal.

I didn’t know very much about it because my zeal for tennis pretty much fizzles out after the US Open. Good job, me! I missed out on the gloriousness that is Fedal. Obviously I am on Team Nadal forever and ever, world without end, but this year has been a throwback to when these two ruled the tennis world and Rafa’s intensity is never quite at peak level the way it is when he’s facing Federer across the net. But seeing two legendary rivals and intense competitors come together as doubles partners and put that intensity to work as a team is a wholly different experience.

That’s it, I’m sold. Team Fedal forever.

At World’s End, v1.0

Nibiru would hit the planet, they said. Hide your wives and children, they said. Welp, the world didn’t end.  And the only things of cataclysmic portent that emerged over the weekend were:

Hurricane Maria.

Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer teamed up to form a doubles team for Team Europe and went on to nab the first ever Laver Cup. Annnnnd I missed it. Curses.

Just look at them. Le sigh.

This Toronto heatwave. All that’s hanging in my closet are knits because I am way too eager for fall, so I spent my weekend hissing at Facebook photos of people at the beach.

Kylie Jenner is pregnant.

I knew it. Kylie Jenner is Nibiru.