A Question I Could Not Answer

Barry Buss

I escaped Muncie and the Westerns unscathed, setting off for the long trek to Kalamazoo for my first ever trip to our National Championships. This was the team's big week. The US National team at the US National Championships. Demands on our time would be high: meetings, dinners, exhibitions, banquets, all the formalities of the gig that made me cringe.

A couple days the establishment way and I was instantly edgy. It was too risky to drink anymore around the team, yet trying to stay sober around the brass was killing me. With still over a month of summer to go, I concocted a plan, scoring a giant bag of pot from a local Michigan kid. I'd spent my high school years stoned, learning all the tricks of avoiding detection. Anything to escape reality that wasn't going to get me in trouble. I just needed to ride out the summer. But implicit in my plan was a resignation. That at seventeen, I was already too far gone to change my self-destructive ways and take advantage of the opportunities before me.

Finding places to get high would prove tricky. The coaches roomed me with Southerner Lawson Duncan, the straightest laced guy on our team, having never as much as drank a soda before. Alone one afternoon before heading out for a night of team functions, I made the mistake of getting high in our room, trying to blow the smoke through the air conditioning vent. Bad idea as the room soon filled with the pungent smell of marijuana. As I tried to pry open the sealed shut hotel windows, Lawson walked in, immediately freaking out, his virgin lungs now inhaling this foreign toxic air. Lawson began to panic, using his shirt for a filter as if a dirty bomb had gone off in our room. Frantically gathering his stuff, he began screaming at me.

"What in the hell are you doing and what is that awful smell??!! I can't stay in this room anymore. I'm telling the coaches."

I blocked his path from leaving, begging him not to tell on me and that it would air out and it will all be fine by tonight. But he wasn't buying it, yelling back "No it won't!! And that smell is going to poison me."

I countered with no it wouldn't, telling him to look at me and that I was fine to which he exploded back at me... "You're not fine. You're high on that grass again."

I answered back meekly that I know I am and that I always am, but that I was ok and please don't tell on me.

Lawson paused, no longer determined to leave the room..."Why you gotta be doing that stuff all the time?"

And I gave pause. That was a big question, a question nobody had ever asked me before? Why did I have to be high all the time? Nobody else on the junior tennis circuit was getting high all the time. My stock answer was I was just having fun, but there was nothing fun about this anymore. Hadn't been for a while now. What started as fun had morphed into fun and problems, with the fun slowly fading away, leaving only problems.

I looked at Lawson and somewhat ashamed replied that I didn't know. That I really didn't know.

To which he bugged out, yelling at me even louder now. "How can you not know...You're the one who keeps doing it...I don't get how you can't know what you're doing to yourself, especially when you the one doing it!"

Again, I told him I didn't know, but that getting high was all I knew.

Then Lawson came on strong "You're killing yourself, polluting your lungs, your brain and that's why you freak out on the tennis court all the time, because you're doing all them drugs.

To which I got real with Lawson, telling him I freak out even more when I'm not doing drugs.

Lawson, getting exasperated, "You make no sense to me. How can you play tennis like you do smoking all that stuff? Imagine how good you'd would be if you didn't.?"

I countered with I won both my matches that day in three sets dude and that I played alright high.

Done with me, Lawson barked back "You'd have won in straight sets if you didn't do that stuff!!! Now get dressed. We're going to be late."

Lawson put his shirt up to his mouth again as a make shift gas mask, hurrying from the room. He was right, we were going to be late. I rushed my team clothes on, slipping on my topsiders then hurrying downstairs to the waiting van, now deeply rattled that Lawson might rat me out to the coaches, all the while high as a satellite.

We got to the courts. It was a big evening for the team and I could not be less prepared. We were to play an exhibition with the local kids, yet I had no rackets. It was team picture night, yet I had no tennis shoes, raising a few eyebrows along the way.

I survived the events at the courts, but barely. Arriving for the team dinner, I strategically seated myself as far from the USTA authority figures as possible.

Dinner began and I wasn't feeling well. Two long three setters in the obscene Midwestern heat and a head full of highness and anxiety. Being fully embedded with my tennis all the time team was showing its strains.

A summer of beating mercilessly upon each other had unleashed a stream of pent up animosities between team members, many of which dated back to the earliest age groups. A team of individuals, all competing for the same prize, was a team divided, and frankly not many of us liked each other as small cliques developed, with the well behaved and more dedicated getting preferred treatment over myself and the more rambunctious ones.

We were twelve fiercely competitive individuals feigning camaraderie as the infighting and back stabbing grew by the day. Being a little edgy and a lot high, I decided upon myself to take the mighty self chosen ones down a peg or two. Unfortunately, I chose our team dinner with the USTA brass present to do it at and without even the slightest provocation, half way through dinner I barked all the way all the across the table to Rick Leach, standing up to yell down at him...

"Hey Ricky how was that overhead back up at Ojai?"

Without the slightest hesitation, he snapped back it was good and he wouldn't have complained if it wasn't.

Not having it, I barked back "Yeah, that's why I had a hundred people come up to me afterwards telling me it was out!!"

Drawing attention to myself in my impaired state was not my smartest move. With all other conversations ceased, Coach Louderback jumped up, yelling at me to sit down and to knock it off.

All eyes upon me now, I slithered back in to my seat, my bravado squashed, but before I had settled in completely, Coach Louderback caught a good look at me, asking me why my eyes were so red, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear.

I said I didn't know and asked are they?

"Yeah, very." he said.

"Long day in the sun and I was probably rubbing them a bit too." I said back. And as I sat down, I apologized to Coach, saying I just had to get that off my chest.

To which he erupted: "No you didn't have to get anything off your chest!"

And that was it. I stood back up, voice further raised, yelling "I know I didn't have to but that I was having a hard time hanging out with guys all day and night that job me while pretending like we're all buddies and rooting for each other and shit and then hearing about them talking shit about me and watching them hook other guys. It’s a personal thing. I just don't operate that way and I hope you can understand that."

To which Coach exploded. "I'm not all that fond of the way you operate and I'm trying to run a team right now and to sit down and zip it!!"

I sat back down. He didn't like the way I operated. And I didn't like the way they operated. The all tennis all the time way just wasn't any fun, not that my way of fun was all that and more, far from it. But the lack of balance in their way was wearing me down. The powers that be in USTA Player Development were hardcore. They were intense career tennis people who knew what it took to excel at tennis' most elite level. That it took tremendously hard work, spartan like discipline, and the sacrifice of everything that would be considered normal for a balanced American teenager life.

After two months in the trenches their way, I knew it wasn't for me, and the more they rammed it down my throat, the more I rebelled. My relationship to tennis had always been tenuous. For many years, I was chasing a dream not entirely my own, but when I finally freed from myself the shackles of my overbearing father, I'd found a place in tennis I could call my own with some pride. I had been playing my own way for some time, but now all that was being challenged and I was pushing back, for their way drained the enjoyment right out of tennis for me.

I just wanted to be left alone to compete, to suit up, show up, go to my assigned court, crack a can of balls and simply get at it. I loved the battle part of tennis, but little else of my sport. And when the tennis had been played for the day, I wanted to be done with it, to just be left alone, for I had other battles I was fighting, things I needed to do to feel comfortable in my skin and to keep some sense of serenity in my mind.

I ended up having a great Kalamazoo, picking up a slew of strong wins. But if I was being watched before, I was now being followed. There was little love circulating among the team, loyalty either. We tolerated each other for we had to. Forced together, a laboratory for tennis development, the reasoning being if you put the best with the best, we would push each other harder and harder to get the most from each other.

And maybe we did. It would have been disingenuous of me to say my play wasn't benefiting from having great players to train with under the watchful eyes of an expert staff. And though I was screwing up royally, I was having a great summer results wise, definitely not feeling the imposter anymore as I more than held my own against our nation's best players. My first Kalamazoo in the books, it was off to Rumson, New Jersey for the National grass courts for one more chance at a gold ball.

The coaches roomed me with Lawson once again, maybe thinking his clean living ways would rub off on me through osmosis. Well they didn't, though he almost rubbed me out the first evening in town when I brought one of Rumson's cuter debutantes back to our room. As he made another huge scene, it took all of my persuasive powers again to keep him from turning me in. But he had to be tiring of my act. And as the team arrived at the tournament site the next morning, Lawson and I saw we were drawn to play each other again in an early round. Nothing like adding a little more tension to an already taut situation.

Lawson and I went at it hard the next day. I played super, beating him in another close one, where upon shaking hands, Lawson bolted from the tournament site, running full speed off the court and out of the club for a ten mile running exorcism.

He lost to the drug addict again, and for him that was unacceptable...

An hour later, Lawson returned distraught to a concerned coaching staff. And as the team returned to the hotel, a sinking feeling befell me as I saw Lawson enter Coach Louderback's room. I'm done, I thought. He's going to out me. And sure enough, later that night after our team dinner, Coach Louderback called a meeting and among the topics discussed were rumors of drug use among the team and that the coaching staff would be searching our the rooms the next day, so if anyone had anything, now was the time to dispose of it once and for all.

Message sent. I had the evening to clean up my act, yet morning came and I still had my stash. I'd bought a lot to make it through the summer, which meant I had a lot to hide. Knowing he was coming for me, I tried to find a place on my person to hide it, but the pungent aroma was hard to conceal. So I gamed out the situation. Was he really going to throw everybody's room upside down after last night's warning? And if so, I still should be able to hide it well enough to avoid detection.

And missing from my calculations was any consideration of throwing out my stash. Never crossed my mind for a second. But hide it I did, under the sheets of the box spring under the mattress, purposely leaving every disgusting sweaty shirt and under clothing I could round up, spreading them across my bed to hopefully deter his search.

Thinking I was safe, it was off to the courts we went. Throughout all the drama, I was still playing great, in the semi finals of the Grass Courts with a legit chance of winning my first ever National event. The tennis part of me simply wanted to get my court assignment and get back to doing my version of tennis away from all this conformity and team think. Just tell me what court I'm on and leave me the fuck alone.

But mere minutes before my match was to begin, Coach Louderback showed up to the courts in an obvious state of distress.

As he approached, my name was called to the desk, yet Coach arrived simultaneously, calling me over to talk.

How much did he know?

I approached Coach nervously.

"What's up Coach?"

"I found it."

"Found what?" I deflected.

"The pot in your room."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I denied.

"Yeah you do--it was under your mattress."

"Not mine Coach," I lied.

"Well who the hell's is it then?"

"Must be Lawson's," I blamed.

"It was in your room and under your bed and you're saying it's Lawson's???!!! If it is, you are both off the team right now. Wait right here."

He walked over to several of my team mates. He asked a couple questions. I saw their heads nod in the affirmative. Hearing what he needed to hear, he came back to me quickly.

"So you're saying this is Lawson's pot under your bed in your room...Is that what you're saying?"

"No...No..its not his, it's mine"

"What in the hell man!!!..You're done, You're off the team."

"Fine. I don't fucking care. I've had enough of your team, and your rules, and your meetings, and your dinners, and all your fucking training and all your fucking talk about tennis and all your discipline and the whole fucking thing. You can have it all back man. Here, take your fucking clothes and your fucking jackets back and clear out of my way man, I got a match to play--and as I went to walk past him, he blocked my path.

"You're not playing anything. I'm defaulting you from the tournament and we're getting you out of here right now."

"The fuck you are!!!" And I proceeded to rip off my jacket with the U.S.A. letters emblazoned on the back, the jacket I had worked so hard to attain and that meant so much to me. And I threw it at his feet.

"Pick that up!"

"Fuck you. You pick it up. I gotta match to play."

"PICK THAT UP!!! And you aren't playing anything."

"Not only am I not picking that up, take your fucking shirt too," as I ripped the JDC team collared shirt in half right off my body and threw it at his feet too.

"The shorts are next if you don't get the fuck out of my way."

I pushed past him to go check in for my match. By now, quite a crowd circled around to see what all the drama was about. I approached the desk to ask the tournament director if he had the authority to default me, to which I was informed he did, for I'd been entered under the sponsorship of the USTA and that they had final say as to whether I played or not.

Ugh...Things were falling apart fast.

"Get in the van now. I'm going back to the hotel and checking you out of the room. If you want your belongings, I suggest you get in the van now, otherwise, I'm tossing them.

Defeated now. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to go, nobody to talk to. One part disappointed, another side immensely relieved to not have to be under such scrutiny any longer. Coach Louderback and I got in the van, myself still raging and upset.

I said some God awful things to him on that ride. He would share with me some years later he feared I was going to kick the shit out of him, but I wasn't really mad at him. I was just mad, all the time.

"You have ten minutes to get your stuff if you want a ride to the airport. Ten minutes, or I'm leaving. I have a team to run. We called your parents and you have a flight back to Los Angeles tonight. Now hurry up!"

Gathering my belongings, a sobering reality struck me numb as I realized my father had been informed of my JDC dismissal for marijuana possession. Anger gone, fear now enveloped me. What would the reception be like returning home, not just from my father but Glenn Bassett and UCLA too. Did I just blow my chance at playing college tennis?

I threw my suitcases in the van, beginning the long drive to the airport in mutual silence, myself calming down some and likely him too with me not threatening him anymore.

"Sorry I said all that stuff to you." I said.

"For real man?"

"Yeah for real."

"That was really awful."

"I was awful pissed."

"I don't get you man. I told you I was going to search the rooms. Why didn't you just get rid of it?"

"I don't know."

"You knew I was on to you. You knew I was coming. And you don't know???"

"No. No I don't."

"What the fuck man? You got all kinds of talent. You're having a great summer. Why are you smoking that stuff?"

And I paused. It was the same question Lawson had asked me the week before. I'd had time to think about it now, but it was a question I still couldn't answer.

"I just don't know."

"I don't get it. I don't get you. None of this makes any sense to me or anybody."

I remained quiet for a bit. I was being asked to answer questions I would be asked many times in the years to come. This was another horrendous choice I'd made, but I didn't know why. And these choices weren't so fatal when I was by myself, not affecting anybody else and their ability to do their jobs and live their lives in peace.

But those days of being on my own were now over. I had made an all expenses paid national team, was about to join my college team at UCLA under scholarship. And much was being given to me, hence much more was expected, with the clock running out on doing things my way.

And on the eve of my 18th birthday, it was getting harder to hide behind the veil of youthful indiscretion. I was getting older now, and needed to grow up and fast. For I had taken doing things my way too far this time and paid a significant price. It was a harsh lesson I needed to learn. People were trying to help me and I wouldn't let them. I was so afraid to let my guard down, to let people in. I was so afraid they were going to hurt me like the authoritarian father I was so rebelling against.

Yet not only were these people not going to hurt me, they wanted to help me become the best version of myself I could be. Yet I couldn't feel that, I was so lost hiding in the haze of drugs and alcohol, nowhere near ready to let anybody in to my private world quite yet, for it was full of darkness and shadows and secrets and shame, shame for how I felt about myself and for what I was doing to myself, desperate to ward off those feelings of inadequacy that were so firmly implanted in my head from day one from the only voice I knew.

And Coach repeated himself one more time under his breath.

"Doesn't make any sense to me."

"Me either," I whispered to myself.

We reached the airport, shaking hands and parting ways as amicably as possible for two guys who almost got in a fist fight a mere hour prior.

As I arrived at my gate, I had an 8 hour wait for my flight, all by myself, knowing there was hell waiting for me at home and this time I'd really fucked up.

Long day ended, I arrived at LAX to my Dad. At the carousel waiting for my bags to arrive, my Dad hadn't said a word and neither did I. We barely made eye contact. On the half hour drive home, still not a single word spoken. Nothing. We'd both had all day to prepare for this moment, and this was the best we could do.

Exhausted, I got my stuff inside. Starving, I went to the kitchen. It was late, our house was quiet. I rummaged up some food. Sitting down at the dinner table, staring blankly in to space, I saw a note with my name on it. I reached across the table, grabbed the paper and opened it slowly.

Coach Bassett from UCLA called. He wants you to call him first thing in the morning...