You Can Get There From Here:
Part 9

Barry Buss

I sloshed my way through a torturous hour of drilling. Nobody wanted to be there. Not Coach, not the team, definitely not myself. But I grinded as hard as I could. Put on court five with the scrubs, I was being challenged. Was Coach testing me or done with me?

Coach called the team in. A teachable moment. We got chewed out like never before. No names need be mentioned, but we quit on him. As he continued to chew, a sinking feeling swept over me. He was calling me out for quitting. I'd committed tennis' cardinal sin. No way I ever played for UCLA again.

But in fairness, I did give Coach my all. I simply had nothing left to give. My tank was empty, I'd been running on fumes for weeks now. Yet here I stood, burned out, emotionally fried, hungover as all fuck, and with every fiber of my being wanting the day off, yet knowing if he didn't play me, I'd be getting a lot more than a day off.

Coach began to announce the day's line-up. I was torn. Sit me, play me. A part of me was good either way. Going through the line-up, he reached six singles. Seven of us there, only one spot left.

And he called my name. I'd survived. I was somehow still starting. And as much as I would have loved a day off, to be dropped now would have been fatal.

Our team morale was alarmingly low. I should have been benched. Losing at six while not giving my best, I had six equally worthy teammates waiting impatiently for their chance all season, rooting through clenched teeth for the team to succeed, yet quietly hoping whoever was playing six would lose to give them their shot. Yet their wait would have to continue. Against all reason, Coach still wanted me in the line-up.

With the team struggling, we needed a win. Coach threw every bit of himself at us that morning. It was up to us to match his energy? Match time, the introductions. Both teams congregated on court one. I'm introduced first, shipped off to court six once again. But this time I'm consumed with relief. I'd been granted clemency. What a difference 24 hours could make.

Jittery from everything, I started slowly, getting served off the court by a big lefty from Hawaii named Henry Somerville, my over-imbibing the night before not helping anything. No way I was to have an easy day on the courts; the tennis Gods would not allow it.

Splitting sets again, for what else, another stressful three-setter, I caught word the team was struggling, down 3-2, with my match the last one on. I needed to pull this out or we were in big trouble. Henry and I played a tight third set with no breaks, eventually reaching another third set tie-breaker.

Playing better now, I managed to stay calm, allowing Coach to coach me. And as my team rallied to my side, I responded by raising my game too. All business, no more drama. I hung on to win the third set breaker, evening the match at 3-3. We would quickly sweep the doubles over Cal, ending the weekend on a winning note.

But barely, for damage had been done...

With the season winding down, we had three matches remaining before heading off to Athens, Georgia for the National Championships. Sitting at 23 dual match wins, I needed two more victories to set UCLA's record for wins in a season. First up was USC, this time cross town on their home courts.

I drew Jorge Lozano at five. Wasn't about to get a win against him, for Jorge had my number. As a team, we lost another tight one, but I played well and the team fought hard. USC was just a little better than us.

Last weekend of the season. The Arizonas were coming to town. I needed to sweep to set the record. Still not playing great, I managed to win my first match comfortably. I reached our last dual match of the season with the all-time UCLA record for wins on the line.

A lot to play for. A record. Some history. Hungry but still fragile, I tried everything I could to motivate myself. The belief, the doubt. The never-ending oscillation. Could I dig deep enough to do this?

My opponent was tough and playing well. We settled in for, what else, another long three-setter. Once again, I was the last singles match on.

My teammates, all knowing what was at stake, rallied to my side. I was tight. I was nervous. I wasn't playing great, but I scrapped. Five-four in the third, serving for the record. Barely able to hold my racket, I somehow managed to keep my cool and serve out the match, finishing my freshman year with UCLA's all-time single-season record for wins at 25, more than any other Bruin ever. Even a couple more than Jimmy Connors.

How do you get there from here...

Because tennis, there was little time for celebration. All the aforementioned tennis drama was a mere table setting for what was on deck. We were on our way to Athens, Ga as the 5th seed in the 1983 NCAA Men's tennis championships.

What Williamsport was to Little League, Athens was to college tennis. Legendary Georgia Coach Dan Magill began hosting the NCAA's in Athens in 1972, turning an otherwise forgettable event into a happening. Playing in Athens was the dream of every college tennis player in America. And in a couple of weeks, that dream would soon become my reality.

Georgia in May. Hot, sticky, not everyday pleasant Southern California. The southern heat and humidity were problematic for the California teams. But Coach had ideas. He made the team practice in rain suits, creating the hottest and sweatiest conditions possible.

Bikram tennis before Bikram was a thing. I knew Coach was all about preparation, but to my tapped-out, dying for a break self, this bordered on madness.

Athens approaching. With the mystique, I should have been thrilled. A full season in, I should have been building strength, hitting my homestretch stride. But with all the drama of my late-season collapse, the whole experience felt bittersweet, and frankly, I was all out of cross courts.

And with the workouts for Nationals taking on a whole new level of intensity, tennis had ceased being fun. But there was plenty of fun happening away from tennis. Relieved of the burden of matches, I cranked my hedonistic ways up another dangerous notch. It was Westwood in the Spring of 1983, renting a room at the Hotel California. You just had to be there.

Training hard, partying harder, I was pushing my body to unsafe limits. I started feeling tired, but this fatigue felt different, like something was wrong. The day before leaving for Georgia, I woke up and could barely swallow.

Already on thin ice with Coach, I didn't dare tell anyone for fear of being left home. At our first practice in Athens, I had to stop, unable to make it through. Under pressure now, I finally told our trainer what was going on.

He feared I had mono or possibly strep throat. Coach now informed, they isolated me from the team, telling me to stay to myself. Our trainer gave me some penicillin to knock it out, but would it kick in in time?

Matchday. My first NCAA's, yet I still felt wretched and Coach could tell. He asked me how I was doing. I knew I shouldn't be playing, but I couldn't say that to Coach. If I opted out now, he'd pull me from everything, so I told him I was good to go. Erring on the side of caution, Coach put me at six in the line-up to be safe.

First-round, we play Michigan. I should have had a routine match. But ornery from all the training and stressed from feeling lousy, knowing full well if I didn't look sharp my season was over, I won only two games against a guy I'd never heard of.

Our team managed to win comfortably, but Coach could see I wasn't well, pulling me from the rest of the tournament. We would lose another nail-biter to Pepperdine in the quarter-finals, finishing the season ranked 5th in the country, a banner season for most programs, but an impending disaster if you're UCLA.

For Bruins don't finish 5th to anybody…

Season over, we made the long journey home to California. So much to process. Finally a little time away from tennis and a good time to find my classes for I had some catching up to do.

Walking the campus in the afternoon, on another brilliant SoCal Spring day, I found just like Stanford and Georgia, UCLA had a vibrant college life too. I'd been at school eight months now, yet I'd never been on the UCLA campus in the afternoon. Not once. Afternoons were for tennis. As were weekends. And most mornings. And every thought and emotion and conversation.

Just like Coach said to my parents, that school would take time away from my tennis.

Continuing my walk, I was immersed in an oasis of activity. Bands jamming, Debaters debating, street artists plying their trades, with uni-cyclists and rollerskating martian guitarists adding to the freak show.

It was a veritable circus, at my school no less, no ticket required. And beautiful girls everywhere. I felt like I'd been airlifted onto a movie set. Yet it was my stage, all right before me for the taking. Having a few weeks with no practice in the afternoon might just be the break I needed.

Yet Coach Bassett had other ideas. We were home for all of two days before he summoned us back to the practice courts for the remaining three weeks of school. The horror. The horror.

He had to be kidding. But rest wasn't in his DNA. Nor was failure. We came up short this year. The solution, we needed to work harder.

The air was tense between Coach and me for the way the season ended. During my season review, he tried to renege on my scholarship increase, but I stood my ground, putting up a good fight, that a deal was a deal, but more importantly, I was going to need the money.

I opened up to him about my parents and how they weren't happy with what they saw this season and how they weren't going to support my staying at school. Coach then shared his unhappiness, telling me I needed to take better care of myself to make it through a whole season and that crapping out at the end as I did, didn't do anybody any good.

I opted to keep my unhappiness to myself…

We spoke about the upcoming summer. All my teammates would be traveling, playing the satellite circuits, chasing down those ever-coveted ATP points. I on the other hand had no competitive tennis scheduled. I would be staying in Westwood, working locally while taking summer school to get caught up on my units while living in my fraternity. I mean, what could go wrong?

Summertime. On the first day of work, I'm about to head over to my job, teaching tennis in my old hometown of Torrance on cracked public park courts with metal nets to a bunch of beginners, all for 6 bucks an hour when the phone rang. It was Coach. He had a job for me, teaching members of the Saudi Arabian royal family who were staying in Beverly Hills for the summer. They wanted to learn tennis and would I be interested?

Hell to the yes, I said. I called the number immediately.