Monday, May 21, 2012

Match of the Week: A Tall Tale

After endless blather and unbearable anticipation, here's the first edition of the incomparably riveting, inimitably engaging, and unprecedentedly delightful "Match of the Week." The stars of this week's tall tale: Jones/Hodge vs. Hubert/Soltis. It's so unbelievable that it has to be told.

I know what you're thinking. What's wrong with this chump? Why's he writing about one of his own matches? How narcissistic do you have to be to highlight your own performance when you're the administrator of the doubles league? Does this loser spend half his time flexing his muscles in a mirror and the other half pretending to comb hair that he hasn't had in over a decade? 

While the preceding criticisms have numerous merits, I can assure you that my decision is perfectly logical. First, I haven't seen other league matches in their entirety, so I'm unqualified to elaborate on them. Second, all participants in the match I've chosen to cover (including Maksim, a spectator) have encouraged me to write this narrative (except maybe Hodge, who replied with silence). Thus, on one hand, I'm simply making maximum use of my limited knowledge. On the other, I'm catering to the call of my public. Please read with patience before hurling blunt objects.

It was last Thursday evening, a clear night permeated by mild air. I rode my new bicycle, a replication of a 1930s cruiser, to Soldiers Field, feeling that I should be sporting knickers rather than Nikes. When I dismounted, Soltis and Hodge were warming up alone. According to Soltis, Hubert was running a trifle late. I envisioned Hubert lounging in the parking lot of a Kwik Trip, chugging a forty-ounce malt liquor and gorging a box of glazed donuts. He was seeking, no doubt, to stifle his fear. It was a futile exercise he would live to regret.

Hubert arrived moments later, wearing a mask of indifference. Carrying his tennis bag at his side like a stoic assassin, he said, "I don't need to warm up." Then the clouds parted, revealing the secret of his tardiness: He had been hitting for an hour with a tennis pro, a last-ditch effort to disguise the crippling flaws of his game. I committed myself to making him regret his ridiculous waste of time and money.

I had already hit plenty of groundstrokes during my warm-up, but I told Hubert I needed a few volleys. He launched each ball toward my head, chest, and stomach, an act of aggression I found most unsportsmanlike. Naturally, I fielded each attack with precision and grace, but the sentiment was nevertheless unsettling.

Then the battle started.

Hodge and I have taken each other on lots of times in singles matches, but we don't have a lengthy heritage as a doubles team. Since Dave P.'s career-ending injury, Hodge and I have established the custom of getting off to slow starts in doubles matches. This outing was no different. Early on, we played well at times, but our shots were either just long or wide at fatal moments, and we rapidly found ourselves in a 2/5 hole.

As a rule, Hodge is a self-possessed, well-behaved fellow, and I've never had reason to fear him. But during our court transition at 2/5, only one loss away from dropping the first set, something demonic took hold of him, and I considered fleeing the scene. He employed every insult in the book in an effort to summon my competitive spirit. He assured me that if I didn't get focused and turn things around, he would box my ears, destroy my rackets, and reduce my home to a mound of ashes. He even went so far as to threaten the safety of the children my wife and I are yet to conceive. I never dreamed that such a consummate gentleman as Hodge could be so vile in his pursuit of victory. Spellbound, I listened obediently. 

Needless to state, Hodge provided a stern wake-up call that brought out the best in my game. A forehand winner here, a brilliant volley there, and we turned the tables in the blink of an eye, taking five straight games and prevailing 7-5 in the first set. Soltis looked dazed and in need of a blood transfusion. Hubert feigned composure, but I could tell he was devastated internally. His universe had come unhinged, its bottom on the verge of crumbling.

I don't mind admitting that a slight arrogance may have overwhelmed Hodge and me, leading us to grow lax in the second set. As I recall, we traded games with Hubert and Soltis until they came up with a break point and took the set 6-4. We braced ourselves for a long night of turmoil.

I really needed to pee. Soldiers Field isn't quite the Wimbledon Lawn and Racket Club, so I had to settle for a Porta-Potty, a plastic vault of pestilence that I've never entered without wishing I hadn't. As I emerged from the sewage, delirium gripped me, and my senses were distant and dulled. To my horror, I thought I beheld an albino Sasquatch lumbering about the courts. I soon realized, however, that Hubert had simply removed his shirt. I'm not a very politically active chap, but I plan to storm the mayor's office to demand that the following policies be implemented at once:

I. Rochester must increase its selection of lighted tennis courts.

II. Bob Hubert will be subject to felony charges should he disrobe in public.

The third set unfolded.

What a cyclone of lead changes we withstood! One team would go up a game, only to lose the next one. Then a team would go up 40/love and soon find themselves in an ad-out conundrum. It was Lob City every other point, and when Hubert and I were at the net, Hodge and Soltis exchanged a few cross-court rallies that made the Second Coming of Christ seem like a two-minute wait. 

Hodge hit a cross-court forehand.

"What will I have for breakfast tomorrow?" I thought.

Soltis hit a cross-court backhand.

"Have we ever elected a bearded president, or have presidents always grown beards after their inaugurations?" I pondered. 

Hodge hit a drop shot and retreated to the baseline.

"Maybe I can pee again and make it back before the end of the rally," I wondered.

Soltis volleyed and retreated to the baseline.

"If I threw my racket at Hubert, would he duck in time?" I asked.

It went on like that for bloody ever. I even toyed with the idea of going home to wash my SUV. Alas, the rallies concluded, and Hodge and I were up 5-4. It was my serve.

As I released my first toss of the game, violence swept over me. I wanted to unleash heavy artillery, and I struck the ball cunningly and with science. My serves were offensive and well placed, but they were no better than the pinpoint volleys Hodge put to rest. We were up 40/love. I served harshly to Soltis's backhand, and his return sailed beyond the baseline. Hodge and I planted our flag, and the bugles sang our triumph. Our three-set Civil War had come to an end.

Hubert handled the loss with pride and confidence, but Soltis's cheeks were stained with tears. Believe it or not, his bitterness culminated in theft. After the match, he asked if he might try out my new bicycle. Knowing he's an avid cyclist, I granted his request. But he hopped on the seat and raced down the street, laughing savagely as he disappeared in the darkness. I telephoned the police, and they apprehended him on North Broadway. To my knowledge, he remains imprisoned. To my relief, my bicycle is safe and sound.

               


      



    

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Only Three Weeks Left

It's hard to believe that our doubles session is moving along so rapidly. As Week Four draws to a close, our success rate for match completion remains impressive. Since the start of the season, we've had a total of three forfeits in both divisions combined. While zero forfeits is clearly a preferable calculation, it's a tough ideal to attain given that doubles requires the cooperation of four players. If one gets injured or experiences an emergency, the whole equation stops functioning. This is why careful scheduling and reliable subs are imperative to the flow of our league.

To those of you who found subs and reported them by last Saturday at noon, I appreciate your efforts. If your team remains without a sub, however, it's too late to find one. For the remainder of the season, you may only play your current roster. Forfeit is your only alternative.

I've wanted desperately to observe some doubles action and compose a "Match of the Week" feature, but I've been playing so much tennis that I've lacked the leisure to assume the role of spectator. Last Thursday night, Maksim and I were slugging it out in our RTL singles match as Steven Soltis and Will Stott took on the Brothers Truong on an adjacent court. It was a great contest with a surplus of extended points, but I caught only glimpses of it and can't do it justice without being overly creative in my narrative. Next week, I hope to witness at least one doubles match in its entirety.

Maksim and I have toyed with various ways to determine division winners this session. I wanted to stage championship matches that would involve the top two teams in each division battling for the crown. Maksim's response was along these paraphrased lines:

Now that your team has lost a match, people might think you're coming up with a desperate way to win it all if you finish in second place during the regular session.

That's pretty funny. Division One is so tight at the moment that spots one through four are up for grabs every day. My team is in first place at present but could easily be in fourth place tomorrow. Bloody point differentials!

We'll probably just let regular-season victories and "bloody point differentials" decide division winners this time around. If two teams end up with the same number of wins and identical point differentials, their head-to-head statistics will decide their placement in the standings. Next year, a more riveting criterion might emerge.

In my discussions with players, the backhand stroke has seemed a popular topic as of late, namely the differences between the one-handed backhand and the two-handed backhand. I hit a two-hander when I'm returning serve and pounding from the baseline and a one-hander when I'm slicing the ball or producing approach shots (that is, when I'm moving forward and coming to the net). I favor the two-hander because it offers greater stability and control, but some players feel that the one-hander is a superior doubles tool, chiefly because the goal in doubles is to charge the net. 

Here's a link to a brief piece that explores the virtues and limitations of both backhands: 

http://www.ushsta.org/PLAYERS/PUBLICAREA/HSTMAG/2002/202twohand.htm 

The gist of the article is that the one-handed backhand certainly has its place but that the two-handed backhand is a better option for most players. Give it a glance and see what side of the argument you come down on. You might even be persuaded to modify your backhand along the way.