You Can Get There From Here:
Part 6

Barry Buss

Coach Bassett had a system. Everything earned, nothing given. Win, you move up. Lose, you move down. Pretty simple, don't lose, don't get dropped. Fair. Like a lot like my tennis growing up. Don't miss. Don't get yelled at. I thrived on negative incentive. Being low man in the line-up though, I had no margin for error, or to the bench I would go.

Season starts. Matches and more matches. I kept winning at six. Finally Blaine Willenborg at five loses. I'm moved up. My college tennis learning curve was steep. I knew few of the players, many of them 3-4 years older than myself with tons of experience and everyone could play at this level.

My opponents were grown young men. Myself, Half man, half child, trying to find myself. But I'm loving it, especially the practice regiment. Nobody to call anymore. Nobody cancelling, nobody dogging it. Drills and drills and drills. I'd never trained like this before. I'm getting super fit, feeling like I can go all day. Constant encouragement and support from the coaches, my team mates, our student body. And with all the winning, my belief in myself skyrocketed. And more matches. And more matches. And I kept winning.

Playing the University of San Diego. I'm getting blown out. No answers. 6-3, 5-3 40-0. Quadruple match point down. My season hung in the balance. Lose this, its next guy up and to the bench I go. Yet I survived that mess, only to go down 40-0 the next game. Quadruple match point again. I pulled a Houdini, somehow escaping, saving eight match points. I won the final set 6-0. Season salvaged if not saved. But Coach wasn't happy. Bruins don't lose to Toreros.

Couple months in, matches on top of matches, yet I'm still undefeated. Still playing five, winning comfortably, with far less heroics. Then the matches started getting tougher. Michael Kures lost at 4. I get moved up. With spring break approaching, we had the heart of our schedule coming up. All the top east coast schools came west for a week of battling. I'd been playing well, not zoning. Just solid, finally learning how to win. Focused to a fault, I was taking care of my business.

Week begins. Four matches in four days. Clemson, Harvard, Arkansas, SMU. I sweep through the first 3 without the loss of a set.

Day 4. Huge showdown with SMU. They're number 1 in the country. Rodney Harmon, Eric Korita, Jerome Vanier. Future professionals up and down the line-up. I'm playing four. I draw Floridian John Ross, fellow JDC team mate and the #1 ranked junior in the United States the year prior. He's big, he's strong, he's rough. I have my work cut out for me.

Match day. Introductions. SMU was coached by US tennis legend Dennis Ralston. Last time I saw Ralston, I ran in to him in that Dallas elevator with a case of beer in my hands. He rightfully shook his head in disgust. Now eighteen months later, I'm playing his top recruit. Match starts and I catch fire. I can't play any better. And Ralston's on my court watching. I race out to a 6-2, 5-0 lead when Ralston walked off. What do you think of me now coach? I closed out the match in straights. Best result of my life.

A winning streak. Everything happening fast. I start getting lots of attention. LA Times, The Herald Examiner. the Daily Breeze, The Daily Bruin. Articles and pictures. I'm named ITA Player of the Month. My self-consciousness mutating, I'm being pointed at, spoken about. Newfound attention. I felt the need to up my game. I attempted a cool haircut. Complete fail. I'm out of my league. I don't even know this league. I'm transitioning, from a nobody to a somebody. Yet who I used to be is still a part of me, forever uncomfortable in my skin.

Late one evening I get a call. Its Dad. He's animated. Obviously he'd been drinking, but nothing abnormal. He wanted to talk, but not about my grades or the parking tickets or any more of my irresponsibility stuff. He wanted to talk tennis. He'd been reading the papers. He saw the articles. He read the scores. He knew what was happening. It was time to talk tennis again.

For he knew. He grew up in SoCal watching college tennis. He knew the meaning of what I was doing. Pros to the left of me, future stars to the right. Hall of fame coaches walking on and off my court. He knew. Because tennis. And just like my first ever tournament, he knew exactly where I stood, for the rankings didn't lie.

On the phone with Dad, he's firing on all cylinders, a soliloquy for the ages. I listen and listen and listen. Will there be a mood swing? I try to break his flow, asking him if they wanted to come up for the next day's match against Pepperdine. It was going be rough. Glenn Michibata, John Van Nostrand, Kelly Jones, all coached by Allen Fox. Future pros up and down the courts. Dad said they'll be there. Why not, let's ratchet up the energy some.

Match day. Mom and Dad are on there way up. Its March of my freshman year. I've been at school 6 months, playing all these high profile matches, yet my folks, who lived 30 minutes away, had yet to set foot on campus. But now they were coming up. Pepperdine UCLA. Two top 5 in the country powerhouses. Two LA tennis rivals. They were better than us, but we were at home and Sunset Canyon would be packed with a couple thousand screaming crazy Bruin fans.

The match about to begin, I looked for my folks. I found them, sitting by themselves in the upper corner. Both teams crowded on to court one. It was time for introductions. My name gets called. My teammates cheer me on. "Magic. Magic." I'm embarrassed still. Inexperienced at people cheering for me. I look to my folks to see if they're cheering. Nothing. Just sitting up there staring down, expressionless.

Same as it ever was...

Who would I playing that day? Rill Baxter of Florida stepped forward. He hates me. It's mutual. Good match up for me though. I just beat him up at Pepperdine a month back and I was playing much better now. But he always wanted to fight me, threatening me both times we played. I just hope he didn't challenge me in front of my Dad, because those boxing nights of my youth not having the desired effect.

Match time. If you like your tennis quiet, don't come to a college match. Five matches going simultaneously, multiple coaches charging up and down the row of courts, clapping and cheering and barking out encouragements. Every match razor close, multiple court momentum swings the norm. Great shots being hit constantly, the crowd never stopped roaring. Frequently the roar was for me, though often you never know exactly. Because you're playing. You're trying to focus on your match, but you're also watching, keeping tabs on your team mates, always with an eye to how decisive your match would be. And its never quiet. Hard to quiet the mind with constant chaos all around you.

So if you like your tennis quiet, college matches aren't for you...

Starting slowly, I'm getting beat pretty badly. He's playing spotless. Maybe he won't want to beat me up if he routed me. Lot going on at Sunset Canyon that day. I'm trying to get settled, see if I can hang around. But his game frustrated me. He had so much feel. No matter what I tried, I can't hit through him. I kept looking up to the crowd where my parents sit. Why did I have to invite them? Why invite more distractions? What ever happened to never change a winning game?

Baxter finally cooled off a bit and I caught a break. I get back on serve. The set goes deep, I catch a few more breaks, winning the first set in a tight tiebreaker. Feeling good now, my shoulders relaxed, my hands started to release, the running downhill with the wind at my back part as I finally hit my stride. And the courts were loud and crazy, Bruins and Waves doing battle, yelling and screaming and fighting going on, just not on my court. I was on my absolute best behavior, trying to beat Rill without him wanting to beat me up.

I closed out my match in straight sets. First guy off. Bruins up 1-0. Walking to the front, I get the heroes welcome from the crowd. Soaking in the moment. Back slaps and high fives all around. They're yelling my name. "Magic Magic Magic..." I can't help but blush with embarrassment and pride.

I looked up for my folks. There was an empty space where they once sat. I saw friends from my club, asking if they'd seen my parents. One said they saw them a bit ago walking across the parking lot. Maybe they had to find a bathroom as I hurried back to root my team on. The matches were tight and went long. We split the singles 3-3. Just as doubles was about to begin, I looked up to the stands again. My folks were nowhere to be found. Our team ended up losing a 6 hour heartbreaker, they were just a little better than us. But I had a decent day, winning a big match in front of a full house, never an easy task for my unusually anxious self.

Later that evening, I finally dragged my exhausted self back to my room. I was concerned about my folks, who never made it back to the match. I knew its a bad time to call. Way too late, Dad's window of charm having closed hours ago. Yet I called anyway.

Dad answered right away. I asked if they were alright.

"Yeah we're fine." He responded brusquely.

"How come you guys took off so early?"

"We couldn't stand it. Whole thing was horrible."

"What, my play? I came back to win in straight sets"

"No, not your play. You played fine. Is it like that all the time, all those people and the constant noise and that jackass coach of yours running all over the place kicking the fence, yelling at you guys constantly?"

"Well, yeah. Kinda. That's how matches are."

"Your mother and I hated it. Smoked half a pack of cigarettes in an hour, couldn't wait to get out of there and got a fucking parking ticket on top of it."

"Told you they were assholes."

"They're not assholes Barry. Anybody who gets as many tickets as you is the asshole. So how are you classes going? You know, I'm watching that shit going on out there and you guys are playing matches all the time and they go all day. There's no way your're getting any school work done with all that going on. Am I right?"

"Well...you're not wrong."

"How were your grades this quarter? You have to be fucking up again if that's all you're doing."

"Ummm..I think I did better."

"You couldn't do any worse. How better are you doing? What does that mean? We haven't got your grades yet from your last classes. You were taking 16 units and doing that tennis everyday. No chance, no way, can't be done. That's ridiculous what we just watched, you're wasting your time up there."

"Ok." This was not going in the right direction at all...

"You can't get an education and be doing that every day. It's impossible, and you're taking real classes. How you supposed to pass physics and engineering labs if you miss half of them?'

"Yeah, ummm, the athletic department suggested I take some easier classes after my first quarter train wreck, so I pulled back on the science labs for a bit."

"What classes are you taking?"

"I'm taking my GE classes. Jazz Appreciation, Baroque Art History, and an Urban Architecture class."

A long pause ensued..."Did they tell you to take those classes? Are those the set up classes for all the numb nut football players so they can all pass and stay eligible and play football? Is that what you're doing with your education, taking numb nut classes with a bunch of numb nuts? You're not even going to class, are you?

"You're just playing tennis all the time for that asshole. I knew it. Remember when he came here for dinner and he asked you what you were going to major in and you said engineering or Pre-Med and you remember his response, do you? Barbara, what did that Bassett guy say when Barry told him what he wanted to major in?

Mom chimed in from the back, "He said he'd rather you not major in those fields for it would take a lot of time away from your tennis"

"Remember that? I've never seen your mother so God damn mad in my whole life, we couldn't get him out the door fast enough."

"No fair telling me all this shit now. Why did you let me sign there then? I had a full ride to Berkeley. I could have gone there instead."

"Oh that would have worked out great. You'd probably have a fucking tattoo on your forehead chasing that hippy Grateful Dead band around."

"Jesus Dad, Easy.."

"No easy. We're dead serious. You're not gonna make it up there like this. You're in over your head. We see all the articles about you, treating you like you're the next coming. It's ridiculous. We can't support this anymore. If you want to play tennis, play tennis. If you want to go to school, go to school. But you can't do both and if you want to go back up there next year and play for that creep, you're on your own. I can't support what I just saw today, so figure it out, it's your call. We think you should quit playing, come live at home, enroll at El Camino Junior College, get yourself an education and a job somewhere and build a normal life for yourself. What you're doing up there is not going to work."

"You've been on campus a whole fucking hour in 6 months and this is the shit you're dropping on me? Seriously, that's just a little fucked up."

"It's your call. But we're not going to support you going back up there next year and that's final."

And with that he got off the phone.

Later that evening, I lay exhausted in bed, trying to process what the fuck I just heard. It wasn't the first time and it wouldn't be the last I'd feel that way after speaking to my father. But if past was prologue, I knew he meant what he said.

My Dad knew only one world. His world. He could help me with that world. But not this seat of my pants high stress college tennis experience I was living. He saw the danger in it. The imbalance. That putting all my eggs in to a sport was the wrong move, and what was worse was being dependent upon people who thought the direct opposite, for my Dad thought they were just using us. If we won matches, they kept their jobs, pure and simple, no different than the higher profile sports of basketball and football.

But his bedside manner. What was he so afraid of? Was it his vicarious narcissism that he couldn't handle the college tennis life, or was his sense of myself so deep he knew I couldn't handle it with my implosion just a matter of time. Either way, the UCLA tennis experience was light years beyond his comfort zone. Of course I didn't see it that way. And why would I? I was undefeated, moving right up the ladder, playing great, receiving all the perks of an emerging player.

But the mixed messages from the father I let define me all these years still vexed me, my only comfort coming from the numbing effects of drugs and alcohol. There were so many things wrong about that conversation, the abusiveness, the condescension, the devaluing, the lack of guidance, the impulsiveness of his solution, his dismissive tone. He made it too easy to kill the messenger.

Time would soon tell whether he was right or not, but what I knew was I was playing the best tennis of my life, yet the conversation with my Dad triggered all the feelings of inadequacy I'd been fighting so hard to overcome. And I was in no mood for another long sleepless night with the committee again. No, the gnawing sense of uneasiness I felt was beyond processing. It needed to be rubbed out and good, with as much alcohol and drugs as I could stomach as I felt my rage return.