You Can Get There From Here:
Part 8

Barry Buss

A couple of days at home. Enough time to do laundry and that was about it. I'm sure I had classes, but I couldn't have picked my professors out of a line-up. No trouble finding the practice courts though for two more days of grueling drills in preparation for the Pac-10 Championships.

Wednesday morning. Another road trip. Another week away from school. This time back up to Ojai. Arriving at Libby Park, this time as part of UCLA with the center courts reserved for us. We knocked out a quick practice, then right when wrapping up, the draws were released. I scoured it quickly. All the conference's top players. It was a who's who of American tennis. I find my name in the draw. I'm a who now.

I have a rough draw. They're all rough, but mine's particularly rough. Jim Grabb from Stanford first round; he hadn't lost a dual match all season. And if I survived that, Todd Witsken again in the afternoon. Stanford, USC. Wouldn't want it any other way.

The following morning, warming up on the top courts of Libby to a full house on a postcard-perfect Southern California Spring day. I noticed young faces pushed up against the fence, starry-eyed, watching me and my fellow Bruins hit, dreaming like I once dreamed that maybe that could be them out there someday.

Retrieving a ball, I walked back to the fence, approaching a young boy watching me intently. Looking his way, I caught his eye. He looked back up at me.

"Work real hard and this can be you someday."

I first met Jim Grabb when we were young, attending the player's meeting at the Winston Salem 12 and under clay courts. He was intrigued by me. I was the kid with the photographic memory, who knew everybody's results, scores and all, often better than they knew themselves.

The intrigue was mutual, for his game impressed me. Tall, lanky, athletic, powerful, calm, smart. Great serve, better volleyer, he attacked the net on both serves and every return he could. The tennis antithesis of myself. The mission before me was clear though. To have any chance of beating with him, I was going to have to hit a lot of great shots.

Match time. My energy perilously low, I had the attention span of a puppy, my focus everywhere except on my match. Because people were watching me, namely Stanford's Coach Dick Gould and their #1 player Scott Davis.

More concerned with impressing them, I was trying to rip the cover off of every ball I hit. And for a stretch it was working, as I managed to knock a few by Jim, winning the first set comfortably. The second set gets going and I'm not knocking anymore by him. He's running me off badly. I start getting frustrated. Coach sees me start carrying on. He shouted encouragement my way, but my resolve was shot. One bad week and I felt like I was starting over.

We split sets. Coach comes running over, sitting next to me on the bench. He leaned into me. He's animated, totally in his element. Three Bruins were playing simultaneously. He couldn't be happier. But he's spread thin, not able to stay and watch. He doesn't like what he's seeing though. I'm frustrated, edgy.

He hasn't seen me like this all season. I was approaching the point of no return. Yet he put his all into me. Encouraging. Inspiring. He places his hand on my shoulder, just like in my first match. Yet I don't feel his touch this time.

I'm numb. Burned out. It was a year ago here at Ojai where we first met, when he asked me to play for him. And I did. And he once again was asking me to play for him. And now I couldn't.

The third set begins. Mentally and emotionally I'm absent. But the training. All the practice, all the drills. The muscle memory. My body knows what to do, but would that be enough? I managed to break serve early and somehow hold serve throughout, winning the final set 6-3 and the match.

A solid win for sure, but something was off. I wasn't feeling well. My teammates could tell. My friends could tell. Coach could tell. But what to do?

I was spent. Fully burned out. My competitive fire was now a mere flicker. I was harboring a tennis hangover for the ages. I needed help, but Coach was busy, for Bruins were playing everywhere. For he was not my coach, he was our coach. And he had a team to run.

I tried to talk myself right, to nurture myself, inspire myself, like all those long lonely late nights in bed. I tried all my stock responses, all the cliches of vacuous coach-talk.

Hang in there I told myself. Fight through this I told myself. But the words rang hollow. They possessed little gravity, even less pull. Only a few more weeks until Nationals then a well-deserved break I told myself. But I'm not sure I can last a few more weeks. I needed a break now.

But there would be no break now. Quite the contrary. I had Witsken in an hour on Libby's Center Court. Because tennis. UCLA/USC again. Didn't go so well last time and now I feel like shit.

Match time. And I start carrying on immediately. With every mistake, I'm belittling myself. You suck. You talentless piece of shit. I'd lost all tolerance for frustration. Yet somehow I won the first set. Second set. I continued my carrying on. More chastising, more antics. But my body knows what to do. I break serve. I'm up a set and a break. Could I just shut the fuck up and play tennis?

But I kept carrying on like a fool. Conversations with myself. Random. Abusive. I'm mentally spent. I'm emotionally drained. I'm reverting to the old me. Erratic. Verbally beating the shit out of myself, even when I hit a winner. I was melting down on Center Court. Yet I'm still up a set and a break. Until I'm not. I lose the break, then the set.

Set apiece. Coach comes running out again. I'm muttering away. Who am I channeling? Who else. Nobody else ever spoke to me like this. Coach approaches. I wave him off. Bad move. He just wanted to help. A Bruin in distress. Yet I can't be reached. My spirit in full betrayal. I'm playing on my own again, self-imposed this time.

Yet Coach was having none of it. He took a seat on my court. He won't let me quit. Encouraging, inspiring, yelling at me to come on. But I felt terrible. He's trying to reach me, to help me, but I'm tapped. Yet through all my carrying on I kept playing well. I get up a break in the third. I'm still hitting the ball. My body knows what to do, if only my brain would follow.

The match tightened. I lost my break. Serving to stay in it. It's tight. It's loud. I'm giving everything I have. UCLA/USC, Center court, 5-4 in the third, Coaches and teammates and fans at The Ojai. Yet I feel nothing. With every error, I can't shut up. I'm embarrassing myself and my Coach and my school. I'm suddenly powerless over my mind.

I lose a tight third. Gathering up my stuff, exhausted from two long 3 setters, I walked toward my team, worried about my reception, just like I did in the juniors with my Dad. But there was nobody there waiting for me. Coach was off to another match, my teammates had little to say. I humiliated myself out there. They knew it. I knew it.

What do you say to someone who doesn't want to compete anymore? Who refused to listen. There wasn't even my Dad there to tell me what a loser I was. Everyone's silence said it all, leaving me to myself to figure this one out. Just me myself and a broken spirit. Ten days ago I was undefeated. Now I'm an embarrassment. Can I get a time out?

Ojai ends. The team treks home. Back in Westwood, I immediately head down to my fraternity and the party was on. Little sisters in abundance. A keg always tapped. There were drugs too. Lots of them. Drugs I normally couldn't afford. Cocaine galore.

I do too much one night. No sleep. Straight to practice. I pull it off, but barely. Can't do that again. But I do, the very next night. Not good. Brutal week of practice. The uphill into the wind with my body cramping part of the run.

I start questioning for the first time what I'm doing. Was my Dad right, was this all too much? Still no talk with Coach about my tough couple of weeks and where I stood on the team. Still no talk with the folks about my future at UCLA. Yet I kept partying, harder and harder. For I liked the lifestyle. The girls, the drugs. The constant action, a much-needed distraction.

The weekend approached. Stanford and Cal were coming to town. I'd had a rough couple of weeks. Lots of losses. Lots of behavior. I'm going to get dropped, but just how far? We come together for our team meeting to go over the line-up. Where was I going to land? He started down the list. I've been dropped. To six.

From 2 to 6 in two weeks. No explanation. No inspiring words or motivating sermons or comforting hand on my shoulder. I'm right back where I started at the beginning of the season, but now with a lousy attitude.

The night before Stanford. Now it's a full pity party. How could he? How could he not? How much did he know? The committee was back in force. It was loud, it was argumentative. I needed sleep, yet I couldn't sleep. I had Grabb again tomorrow. I'm playing 6, with no margin for error. If I lose, I'm finished for the season.

I tried going inward. Come on. Motivate. Get fired up. The team needs you. I need the team. But my well of resolve ran dry. Burned out in need of a time-out. I picked the wrong sport though, for tennis didn't do time-outs.

The whole college tennis experience was taking its toll on me. I had never played this much tennis before, not even close. And what started promising was fast becoming a nightmare. Honeymoon over. My tennis clock had struck twelve.

The practices, the coaching, the travel, the competition, the success, the stress, all while trying to stay eligible and not freak out that my parents were cutting me off all while managing a growing drinking and drug problem. And still, nobody to confide in. How was this supposed to work out?

Match time. Introductions on Court 1, no longer my court, today or any future day. I'm playing #6 singles. I'm introduced first. The crowd cheers, my team cheers, my coaches try to fire me up, yet still stinging from my demotion, I feel nothing. Grabb and I head to the sole backcourt, away from the crowd and the coaches and all the action.

Dejected, yet somehow I'm still playing good tennis, getting off to a fast start, winning the first set 6-3. I lose the second set by the same score and upon splitting, the coaches asked us to move to a frontcourt to finish our match.

And all I had to do was say no...

We move to the front. Halfway through our 3rd set, we're the only match still playing. Down 3-2 in matches, I needed to win or we were in trouble. The stands packed, Stanford UCLA, a college tennis heavyweight fight. Players, coaches, fans, yelling and screaming on every point, yet despite the vortex of energy surrounding me, I couldn't give the first fuck whether I won or lost. I was finished and it was about to get awkward.

I needed to get off the tennis court. If only tennis allowed for substitutions. With nowhere to hide, my inability to care began to show. At 5-5 in the third I lost my serve at love and without expression, I walked to the other side of the court without sitting down. Coach Bassett approached me, cajoling and encouraging me to fight and to play proud, yet I turned away, barely acknowledging his presence. I just wanted off the court, to get this debacle over with.

Unable to care, yet incapable of quitting. The tennis player in me ran deep...

With Grabb serving for the match, I managed to break back, saving a match point on a ridiculous topspin lob. Yet it was so obvious I was done, few cheered. For I was breaking down in a very public and awkward way.

Having an emotional meltdown at 18 is not unique; most teenagers have one at some juncture in their youth. I just happened to be having mine in front of a whole lot of people at the absolute worst of times. It was such a foreign emotion, to feel so numb and empty on a tennis court.

I wanted to care, I knew I should care, everyone around me cared, yet I had nothing. And it was just a couple of weeks earlier on these same tennis courts I could do no wrong. Dead inside, I went out feebly in the third set breaker, putting our team down 4-2 and in a big hole heading into the doubles.

By now, Coach had seen enough of me. I was promptly pulled from the doubles lineup, but it mattered little as our whole team played terribly, getting smoked in an hour. Our post-match meeting was tense.

Coach could barely talk, said he'd never had a team quit on him like that before and he wasn't about to now. Despite having another big match against Cal the following afternoon, he ordered us all to the courts at 7 a.m. for some early morning conditioning.

Distraught with my season falling apart and nowhere near mature enough to face the root of my problems, I drank myself sloppy that night, compounding my troubles with a serious hangover for what was to be a tense day of UCLA Tennis.

The following morning, the team quietly assembled to the courts. Coach got right to work, matching up players, sending them off to their respective courts. But my name was not called, leaving me standing there alone with my tennis gear as Coach walked away to start practice.

"Uhhhh...Coach? What do you want me to do, keep score?"

"Hey Barry, you don't want to play anymore."

"Yeah coach, that's why I'm standing here in my tennis gear at 7 in the morning."

"You didn't want to play yesterday. I've never seen anything like that in all my years."

"Why did you drop me to six like that without saying anything to me? Is this what playing for you is like? Bust my ass for you for 7 months straight, have one tough week, and see ya?"

"I was trying to motivate you and give you an easier match to get back on your feet."

"Yeah right, No fair telling me that, huh? And if it matters to you, it didn't work. Complete total fail. Absolutely 100% not motivating. Take me from the front courts to the graveyard in two weeks. Drop me in the line-up. Put me behind a teammate I haven't lost a set to all year and you know that. You know that! I couldn't feel more slighted if I had to, until right now. Now I feel even worse."

"And that's how you respond to adversity? Quitting? I don't feel good either Barry. I've never had a player quit on me like that."

"I haven't quit anything yet! And did you not watch the doubles yesterday? The whole team quit on you. We're burned out Coach, all of us. I'm sorry I laid an egg on you yesterday. I'm just trying to hang in there. This is my first year doing this. It's so much more than I have ever done before and I'm really worn out.

"I should have said something to you but I was afraid of the consequences. And my Dad's giving me a hard time about being here, I'm screwing up in school again and that's stressing me out. I'm tired and don't have anyone to talk to about this stuff. I've never played this much, never done this well, never had a coach to answer to, teammates depending on me, school rooting for me, newspapers interviewing me. I don't know what the fuck is happening to me.

I can't sleep, my mind's racing all the time. I'm stressing out really bad coach, really bad, there's no breaks, just one thing to the next thing to the next thing. I'm doing this all by the seat of my pants and I got no one to talk to about it and now this shit and I don't even know if I'm gonna be able to come back here now or if I even want to or if you even want me to and I'm really fucking stressed out coach and now you leave me here standing all by my fucking self again and it feels really bad standing here by myself trying to fucking explain this to you.

"You should know this shit, you should care more, you know it's fucked up for me at home. I need help and I don't know who to talk to and now you're casting me aside too and it feels so wrong!!"

And it was on. After getting all that off my chest. I started bawling, uncorking the angst that lie within me I'd been trying so hard to contain.

Coach came over to me and put his arms around me. Like I needed. It was a tough moment for us. He didn't sign on for this and neither did I. Try as he might, I needed a lot more help than he was capable of giving me, yet he didn't know how to give me what I needed. I needed guidance, direction, advice, a mentor.

He was a tennis coach with a dozen players to manage, his sole responsibilities to himself and UCLA his employer. His job was to win tennis matches. He didn't recruit me to foster parent me or coddle me or be my therapist. He was running a business, UCLA tennis, his success hinged on our success. When we won, he won. When we lost, he lost. He could accept those two outcomes as long as we fought our asses off, for he lived and breathed UCLA tennis. So when I quit on him, that was him quitting on himself and that was simply unacceptable to Coach.

"You taking care of yourself with that other stuff."

"Yeah, I'm doing ok."

And again, all I had to do was be honest and tell him the truth. But I simply couldn't yet.

"I'm hearing things about you off the court. Are you sure you're ok? You're not yourself these past couple of weeks. If you need a break, you have to let me know. I have lots of other guys I can play if you need some time."

"No, I'm good Coach. Let me practice this morning. I want to play. I'll pull my shit together. I promise I'll fight hard for you today, I promise."

"I can't promise I'm going to play you today. I haven't made up my mind. Get on court 5 and start hitting. I'll see how you look and make my decision afterward."

"OK Coach. Thank you. I'm sorry."

And off to the court I went, with a scorching hangover and my team status on life support. Things were deteriorating fast, but there was little time for processing.

For I had a court to get to and cross courts to hit...