You Can Get There From Here:
Part 7

Barry Buss

Six months in to season and the UCLA tennis schedule had become all encompassing. Matches and tournaments and travel, week after week after week. With little rest for the weary, I had even less time to process Dad's latest missive. (Click Here.)

Just more mental static to compartmentalize. But it was starting to get crowded in my mind's storage unit. Any more added drama and I might burst.

In spite of everything, I remained undefeated. I had a winning streak going, closing in on the UCLA's freshman record of 22 consecutive victories without a loss, held by none other than my idol Jimmy Connors. With winter quarter's final exams upon us, the team finally got a few days off from practice. But God forbid have a weekend off too, for Coach entered us in Southern California's prestigious Valley Hunt Club Collegiate Invitational.

The draw was loaded with all the usual suspects. The top players from USC, UCLA, Pepperdine et al. I got a rough draw, pulling the top seed in the first round, Pepperdine's John Van Nostrand, a stud of a player ranked 2nd in the NCAA. Big guy, bigger game, I might just get the weekend off anyway. But not so fast. I ended up playing my best match of the season, beating him convincingly in straight sets 6-4, 6-1 in under an hour.

What Was Happening?

What was happening? With my win came more press, more attention, more hype. Already way out of my comfort zone, my sudden surge of success was so exciting yet complicated too. For I hadn't been groomed for this level of achievement.

And try as I might, I couldn't load the emotional software fast enough to support myself with my now seemingly endless run of great results, making it all feel foreign and frightening and out of control, like it was all a big mistake, an unsustainable dream I was to soon awaken from.

The following week. Back to school, back to dual matches. And I kept winning. Fifteen in a row. Sixteen, Seventeen. Now I was moving up the line-up. Playing #3 now. Tougher teams, tougher matches. Yet nothing seemed to phase me.

Eighteen matches, Nineteen matches. Now I was playing #2. Conference play began. We went on the road to play the Arizonas. I won in Tucson against University of Arizona. Twenty in a row. More importantly, our #1 player lost. This was it.

Would Coach stay true to his promise and bump me up to one? He hadn't wavered from his word all year. Win you go up. Lose you go down. Playing 2, there was only one more up to go. Did he dare move me up to one?

The next morning. I'm nervous as can be. Team meeting. He reads off the line-up. I'm playing #1 singles for UCLA. Jesus. It was literally a year ago I walked in to my high school library, opening random books on sports psychology, desperate to find anything to help quiet my addled mind. I was damaged goods, going nowhere fast. Now twelve months later, I was undefeated and playing #1 singles on the defending NCAA Champion UCLA Bruins.

You simply can't get there from here...

Match time. And I played well again, toughing out a close three setter. Now I was 21-0. I make it back to Westwood with my streak still intact. One more win and I would tie Jimmy Connors record. Could I catch him? Could I surpass him? So much greatness and history here. Was I really about to set an all time UCLA record?

Match time again. I'm still playing one, this time at home against a lesser team. Everyone on the first court, introductions begin. Everyone disperses to their courts. Not me though. Not today. Today I stay. Court one was mine. And I played like it, winning again, tying Connors' UCLA freshman record of 22 consecutive match wins. One more and the most improbable of records would be mine.

Later in the week we had an easier match scheduled. I would have been able to break it then. But I'd been playing a ton of tennis, and Coach wanted to let our reserves get some play. So he rested me. No sweat. I needed the rest. But our next match was at home against our arch-rival USC. If any records were getting broken, they were getting broken in style.

Match day. At the highest levels of college tennis, every team was loaded from top to bottom. There was negligible separation talent wise. So results often came down to match-ups. Match-ups became everything, and frankly, Coach didn't want me playing one. Nor did my team want me playing one, for few if any were sold that I was the guy to lead our team to the NCAA's, not the least being myself.

And with our next week's matches only getting tougher and tougher with Matt Anger, Greg Holmes, and Scott Davis coming to town, I was totally alright with being moved down. Coach sensed this, deciding to shuffle up our line-up. He wanted me playing three against USC and hopefully be matched up with Tim Pawsat once again.

Of course USC knew this, so they doctored their line-up too. And when all the chicanery was done, I was playing #3 singles against none other than Todd Witsken.

My first USC/UCLA battle. In my 6 months at school I had been learning about the rivalry. The reason you go to UCLA is to beat USC. Pretty sure the feelings were mutual. Two proud universities, two illustrious programs, one of college sports' greatest yet most bitter rivalries, all separated by 12 miles on the Santa Monica freeway.

And two powerhouse teams, loaded top to bottom with All-Americans and future professionals, many of them my friends and foes from years battling on the junior circuit. Anger, Witsken, Pawsat, Lozano, Emerson, all coached by Dick Leach, Rickie's dad.

So much history. So much future. Yet in the present we would battle on a beautiful sunny Southern California Spring afternoon on the Sunset Canyon courts on the campus of UCLA.

In a dorm room an hour before match time, a couple team mates and I were sitting around. To keep ourselves loose before matches we had a routine, playing mindless games of backgammon or poker full of stress reducing banter. Yet an hour before USC, there were no cards being dealt nor dice being rolled. My team mates and I sat quietly in the room, staring at the TV, mumbling to each other in short hushed tones. The tension palpable, I finally told on myself.

"I cannot believe how nervous I am. How the fuck am I supposed to play tennis feeling like this?

What ensued was a long pregnant pause, until another team mate chimed in.

"Yeah man. I hear ya."

Match time. Time to make the traditional Bruin walk down the hall, through the commons, out to the quad, then down the steps of the Sunset Canyon courts. My teammates and I, all decked out in our best UCLA gear, gladiators we were, ready to do battle once again, this time with city bragging rights on the line.

Alpha Dogs

UCLA/USC. It was a heavy weight fight. Alpha dogs everywhere. The stands were filled. Bruins to the right, Trojans to the left. Blue and Gold. Cardinal and Gold. A gang fight about to break out. With rackets.

We filtered down the steps. The crowd, the mascots, the fight songs, the cheers. Every moment you're reminded this is more than just a tennis match. The USC team came in to view, all the guys I'd been looking up to and battling since I arrived in California. Under normal conditions many of us were friends. But there was nothing normal nor friendly about today's conditions.

I'm playing three. The middle court. Not the best post. If I was a horse, I'd need blinders. Too much going on all around. I see everything. I hear everything. On the courts, in the stands, mostly across the net. For there stood Todd Witsken. He was a problem for me. I'd rarely lose to him in practice, yet couldn't beat him when it mattered. I knew I could outhit him, but he was tougher than me. Which psychologically should have been a wash, with neither of us overly confidant playing the other.

But this wasn't just a match. It was USC/UCLA, It was against Todd Witsken. It was me trying to break Jimmy Connors record. My nerves felt like a fever, an oppressive buzz overtaking my body. As I tried to quiet my mind, my thoughts raced maniacally. Vastly out of my comfort zone. Too aware of the moment. Trying to stay calm, trying to narrow my thoughts. To the ball. To the point. To my opponent. Focus. Focus. And in spite of my crippling nerves, I came out swinging, jumping out to an early 5-3 lead.

Serving for the first set, I got tight, watching my early lead slip away and fast. I dropped the first set 7-5. Nothing to panic about. This stuff happens. It's tennis. It's not supposed to be easy. I managed to keep my cool, second set started just like the first. Up 5-3 again, bunch of set points to even the match.

But yet again, I failed to serve out the set. Before I knew it I was down 5-6 and a match point. Another long rally ensued, ending with him ripping a backhand winner by me for the match, and as I looked across the net, I saw Todd jumping up and down with excitement and my first thought was I couldn't believe Todd Witsken would get that excited to beat someone like me.

Five years later I would watch Todd on television get just as excited beating Jimmy Connors on Center court at the US Open.

Yet I played the whole match with a weird vibe. When calm, I outplayed him, but at no point did I ever think I was going to win. I'd hit my wall, my level of incompetency. I'd come a long way this past year, but there was just no way I was going to beat Todd Witsken in a USC/UCLA rivalry match to break Jimmy Connors consecutive wins record in front of a huge crowd.

Just wasn't going to happen no matter how much I'd improved or well I played or how many matches I'd won or what number I was playing. Still riddled with self doubt, I'd run out of gas. It was like climbing the highest mountain. Up, up, up, the view more magnificent with every step, yet the higher I climbed, the thinner the air. There was only one way to go and that way was down. I lost. I'd finally slipped. How far would I fall?

At a core level, in spite of my results, I still didn't believe I belonged. My rise happened too fast, I still felt the imposter, an uninvited guest playing pretend at the Gala Ball. The magnitude of the moment squarely outside my comfort zone. And my biggest fear. That I would wake up and it would be all over, that my tennis clock would strike midnight and like Cinderella, I'd revert back to my old messy self. For who I used to be was still a part of me. All the attention, all the success, happening way too fast for my fractured fragile sense of self to keep up with.

Singles lost, streak broken, yet there was no time for hanging my head. We were in a dog fight. Three all after singles. It was off to the doubles to decide the match.

I was playing third doubles with my partner Mark Basham. We would face Witsken again and his partner Jim Agate of IMG's Teddy Forstman tennis gambling shakedown infamy. (Formerly known just as Bollettieri's.) We would split the first two sets just as courts one and two finished. It was four all in matches and a set a piece at third doubles. Our final set would be the decider. It was up to us to bring it home.

We raced out to a 5-1 lead in the third, and then it all started breaking bad. Already tight, I got a little tighter and there would be no unwinding me on this fateful day. We had a match point, one more point, to beat Witsken and USC and give UCLA a 5-4 victory before a standing room only crowd. I got a second serve to my backhand, far and away my best shot and I drilled right in to the bottom of the net. Bad choke. Bad. Shocked, matters only got worse from there, with us losing a tight tiebreaker and the match to USC, 5-4 by the slimmest of margins.

The following hours were a blur. Wiped out, physically, mentally, emotionally. I eventually staggered my way back to my dorm, getting looks from all around. Were they really staring at me?

I reached my room. It was quiet and dark. I lay down on my bed to gather my thoughts. Then I remembered I had a test on Monday. I'd barely been to class, hadn't done any of the homework. I tried to open my books, hoping to cram as much as I could, but I couldn't concentrate. I was dead in every way. So tired, so disappointed. How the hell was I supposed to study for a test? Could it be that my Dad was right?

Choking the USC match away was rough, yet blowing off school again just added to my discontent, my Dad's words "you can't do both" running through my head. Was he right, was this impossible to do? Everyday I would promise to do better, to hit the library after practice, yet everyday after practice I'd be physically and mentally fried, instead ending up at my fraternity house getting wasted with my all my new brothers. I needed a break. A real Spring break. But with Nationals less than a month away, Coach went deeper down the warpath, deciding what the team needed now was to work even harder.

I was feeling the first wave of burn out setting in. I had long stopped doing my morning practices. Then one afternoon practice, I was dogging it through the drills. Not feeling it, Coach got in my face, imploring me to work harder, yet I had nothing left to give. He eventually sent home for the day. Next morning, Coach calls me in for a meeting. I tried to explain to him how tired I was, that I'd never played this much tennis before. But he wasn't having it, countering we were hitting the teeth of our Conference schedule and he needed me and this was no time to back off.

I left the meeting promising to dig deeper, but I was hurting. I needed a break and badly. Partying more, practicing worse, my fuse shortening, I begin snapping in the warm-up. Something was about to give but nobody was paying attention. Word soon got back to Coach I was having a little too much fun at night. He mentioned it to me in jest, but I knew he wasn't kidding.

How much did he know?

The next weekend we traveled north to play Berkeley and Stanford. I'd been struggling in practice, but Coach kept me playing #2. Against Berkeley, I played my worst match of the season, losing badly in straight sets. The whole team played terribly, taking an awful loss to an average Cal team. Coach was extra pissed now. Bruins didn't lose to Bears.

The following day we traveled to Palo Alto to play Stanford. The Taube Center. Where college tennis royalty played. Tim Mayotte, Roscoe Tanner and John McEnroe played their college ball here, all under the watchful eye of Hall of Fame Coach Dick Gould.

Including doubles, I'd lost 6 matches in a row in increasingly ugly fashion. Yet against Stanford, Coach kept his belief in me, playing me at #2 in the line up, matching me up once again with my junior tennis rival John Letts. I started slowly again, losing the first set 6-0 in mere minutes. I was completely falling apart. A showed a little life in the second, but all in all I played terribly and competed worse. First off the court, first to lose. Never good. But our team dug in against a loaded Stanford team that would win the NCAA title that year. Tied at 3-3 after the day matches, the final 3 matches would be played in the evening, indoors at Maples Pavilion in front of 10,000 highly partisan Stanford fans.

In spite of how poorly I was playing, Coach put me at #1 doubles in what would become the deciding match. With a few hours break before the evening session, I took a late afternoon walk through the Stanford campus, in hopes of clearing my head, for my tennis had gotten away from me. Nervous, edgy, and with my confidence crashing, I walked the campus worried sick about playing the deciding match against Scott Davis in front of more people than I'd ever played before in my life.

Out of ideas, I decided to get high and wander the beautifully manicured campus to see how other students lived. And then it dawned on me. In my entire time 7 months at UCLA I had never been on the campus in the afternoon. Not once. I was either practicing, playing or traveling. And right before me was the most vibrant college campus life. Speakers speaking, protestors protesting, musicians playing. I was stunned by all the activity everywhere. And here it was April of my freshman year and I had no idea what took place on a college campus. What had I been missing? Was my Dad right? Was it impossible to do both?

Hours later and still a little buzzed, my partner Jeff Klaparda and I took the court against Scott Davis and John Letts, the best team in the country for what would be the deciding match in front of 10,000 amped up fans, who decided early in the evening I was the Bruin in need of picking on.

I started the match nervously, continuing my poor play as we got rubbed out in the first set. But come the second set, I settled down, playing much better as we eked out a close set to even the match. Four all in matches, one set a piece, against the best team in the country. It would come down to us and one final set to decide it.

On serve late in the 3rd. It was approaching midnight, yet a boisterous throng of fans remained. We fought, we scratched, yet Scott Davis, future #1 in the world doubles player, came up big with some late match heroics, edging us 6-4 in the third, giving the match to Stanford 5-4.

What a day. It was well past midnight when we finally got back to our hotel only to have Coach call a team meeting. We were all wiped out, spent, raw, now worried Coach was going to lay in to us. Coach entered our room only he wasn't mad at us at all. He was emotional. Beginning to address us, his voice began to crack and myself and a couple other team mates began to tear up too.

Undermanned and not playing our best, we put it all on the line for him that day. And we fought. We fought hard for him and each other and our school and with his voice overcome with emotion Coach said that's all he ever wanted from us, to fight for him and each other and to represent UCLA with pride, and we did that today and just how proud he was of us as a team.

And when he finished talking, one of our assistants entered, handing out beers to us all…

Laying down to sleep. What a week. From 22 wins in a row on the cusp of a record with a match point on my racket to beat USC to having lost 8 matches in a row. Exhausted. Hurting. So much to process. How was I going to pass my classes? And how far would I be dropped in the line-up? But not so fast. We would be home in Los Angeles for only 48 hours before hitting the road again, this time back to Ojai for the Pac-10 Championships. Some decent results and maybe I could save my spot in the line-up.

But did I have anything left to give?