“Fuck”Despite the fact that I have an inflated ‘moralconscience’ and was raised to be ‘the perfect gentleman’ by my very Britishparents, who made sure I possessed manners fit for Prince Harry before I waseven toilet trained, my body somehow conjures the courage to blurt this wordout on special occasions. That’s because words like ‘cool’ or ‘awesome’ or’damn’ just don’t do those instances any justice. So, when my friend Sam toldme the story I’m about to tell you, I let out a high pitched, five-second-long’fuck’ that re-assured him that his tale was fuck-worthy and was going to betold and retold to all the people he knew. Not to be racist or anything, but have you evernoticed those super-talented Asian kids on TV hitting/whacking/annihilatingballs with such spectacular hand-eye coordination that it makes you wonder whattwo gods made sweet love and birthed them and just how pathetic the rest of thehuman race really was? You see, Ryan was a kid who belonged to this category ofcreatures. He could hit a tennis ball with the precision and power one wouldnormally expect from a seasoned tennis professional who had made MalcolmGladwell’s ‘Outliers’ his bible and devoted his blood, sweat and tears totennis for well over 10,000 hours.
Ryan had what we mortals call a gift. Ryan was born to play tennis. His parents thought he’dbe famous and have his name up in lights on the courts of Wimbledon.Hiscoach agreed.
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The neighbors agreed. His friends agreed. His kindergarten teacher’s husband’s thirdcousin agreed. But, Ryan? Ryan did not agree.
Ryan despised the sport. Hecomplained and whined for years, but his father, having read Andre Agassi’sbook, decided not to give a flying fuck about his son’s hopes and dreams andconcluded that his son hating tennis was not going to stop the future fromunfolding just the way he had planned it. He dreamt that he would one day besitting in his study with a glass of fine scotch, admiring the shimmering goldWimbledon trophy perched atop his son’s seemingly infinite trophy cabinet.But little did father realize what it would actuallytake for his dream to materialize.
Tennis is a sport where the chances ofWimbledon-trophy-collecting-dust-on-your-shelf-level of success are slim tonone and there is nothing worse than seeing an athlete who can’t put in thework despite having the talent. Believe me, I’ve been that athlete. It sucks. Ittakes a level of dedication that isn’t comprehensible by most. You eat, sleepand bleed tennis and nothing else. So that means no dope, no girls, no booze,no junk food and no spending your summers at your daddy’s beach-house in theHamptons, throwing wicked parties for your moron friends. Ryan was scheduled to play his first-round match at8:30 AM on a fine sunny Sunday morning in beautiful Amsterdam. The tournamentvenue was a quaint little country club, in the center of the famous Vondelpark.
This was a large event, broadcasted throughout the continent and the venue hadbeen renovated to accommodate 5000 spectators. Ryan had to be given a wildcardentrance into the main draw, for he was way past his prime and his ranking wasnot nearly good enough to guarantee him a spot on the draw. His father had tocall in a lot of favors, kiss a lot of asses and beg and plead with powerfulpeople so that his beloved son could be granted yet another opportunity totruly live up to his potential. But, Ryan had other ideas for Amsterdam. He calledhimself a connoisseur of marijuana and an admirer of the curvature of thefemale body and was a firm believer of the phrase ‘never rising before the sunrises’. He rationalized that the only way to live up to his name withoutcompromising his faith and still having the decency to show up to his match thefollowing morning was to go out.
That night, Ryan sat in his hotel room and made a listof all the bars, brothels and cafés that were worth his attention and came upwith a strict schedule to visit them all. A hit of a joint here, a blowjobthere and a beer elsewhere. He stepped on to the cobblestone street, lit acigarette and looked at his list. The first bar wasn’t far from here. He walkedover, ordered a beer and a shot of whiskey and parked himself at a vantagepoint where he could survey the talent. His time at this establishment waslargely uneventful, for when a pretty young thing caught his hungry gaze, she’drun away so fast, you’d think there was a clearance sale at Louis Vuitton. Ryan’s opponent the next day, Alexander, was the kindof athlete that was chiseled out of a fine piece of marble; he was honed by thebest coaches, conditioned by the best trainers and fed by the bestnutritionists. His focus was sharp, his goals set solid and he had planned thenext twelve hours leading up to the match to the minute.
While Ryan was out doing who knows what with god knowswho, Alexander was hitting with his coach and strategizing. “You have an easy day tomorrow.” His coach called from the other end ofthe court. “Don’t worry too much. This kidwith his shitty attitude won’t give you much of a fight.
He probably won’t evenshow up.” “I’m not counting on it. But in case he does, what do I do?” “Run him around, I’ve seen how much he smokes. He’ll start wheezingafter the first three games.”Alexander nodded in acknowledgement, walked off court and went back tothe hotel. He needed to eat within the next hour, sleep in another two and wakeup in twelve. But considering it was an easy match the next day, he had allowedhimself the leisure of watching an episode of his favorite show before bed. Heset an alarm for 6:30 am.
This would allow him enough time to go through hispre-match routine and be prepared for a brawl, should it come to that. Ryan was now halfway through his list, walking thestreets of Amsterdam high as a kite. He had made friends with a few locals overdrinks at the bar, impressing them with his knowledge of the subtle differencesin the development of THC in marijuana when you cultivated it for two weeksrather than three. The rest of the night passed by in a blur for Ryan. That’snot a surprise when you drink your weight in liquor and then follow that with ajoint handed to you by a stranger.
The following morning, Ryan stumbled on to the court reekingof weed, beer and everything in between. Riddled with insomnia and a hangoverthat would leave most paralyzed, he picked up his racquet, tied his shoes anddragged himself to the baseline and prepared to receive serve, wondering if he couldsee the ball at rest, let alone shot at him at a hundred miles an hour. Alexander looked at the sorry state of his opponentand laughed. “You good there, buddy?” He called.Ryan replied with a thumb-up and groaned.”Let’s get this over with.” Alexander served wide to Ryan’s forehand, and poorRyan saw three balls instead of one. He picked the one in the middle and swungas hard as he could.
“Wrong one”, he muttered as he heard the ten spectatorshowl in laughter at the sight of him missing the ball by an entire foot. He lost the first set 0-6 in fifteen minutes.Alexander was an aggressive baseline attacker. The coaches said that he remindedthem of a young Andre Agassi. He sent balls past Ryan so fast that Ryan barelyregistered seeing them, let alone getting a racquet on them and sending them tothe other side. He wondered that had he not taken that joint from the stranger,he probably would see the ball in three dimensions and maybe hit it back. He limped back to his chair, sat down and wrapped hishead in a towel.
That was when he heard the words that set his soul on fire. “This overprivileged bastard doesn’t deserve to setfoot on a tennis court.”He leaped up, asked the umpire for a medical break andmade his way to the bathroom. On his way there, he peered into an ashtray andpicked up a half-smoked cigarette, lit it and smoked the entire thing in fourlong drags. He had warmed up. He was now angry. The haze in his brain had beenreplaced with clarity. Ryan walked back to the court, picked up his racquetand prepared to serve.
What followed was a demonstration of what Ryan was puton this world to do. He played a brand of tennis that can only be appreciatedfrom a distance. He pulverized anything Alexander sent his way and played eachpoint with the level of perfection of someone who was born holding a tennis racquet.
The sight of Ryan playing was quite literally a feast for the eyes and anyone dumbenough to come watch Ryan play, given his reputation, was rewarded with amemory branded into their conscience.His moment of transcendence ended when Alexandersmashed his own racquet and started screaming curses in German after losing thethird and final set 6-2. Ryan wanted to find the man who uttered the words thatlit his fuse and give him a piece of his mind. He reconsidered when he wentover what had happened in the past hour. Maybe that was a good enough ‘fuck you’.———————————————————————————————– “So whathappened to the guy? Is he still competing?” I asked Sam after he finished tellingme the story.We were sitting at the bar, sipping beers after a long day.”Yup, he’s playing the local tournament tomorrow””Okay…Has he gotten his shit together though?””See that guy right there?” Sam said as he pointed to the gentlemanthrowing up his guts in the trash.”Yeah.”, I replied.”That’s him.”