tonymoschetto.com

I think I spend more time thinking about tennis than actually playing it. A ratio I would like to change as soon as possible. If dreaming were a job, I'd be a millionaire, maybe even a billionaire. I try and get tennis partners, you can never have enough, but schedule seems to be an issue. Not too many people have the same schedule as I do. I can play anytime during the day, mornings, mid-mornings, lunch time, after lunch and late afternoon. The only time I can't play is mid afternoon. That's when tennis practice for the Men's team is. I spend most the time just watching, analyzing and giving advice, hoping not to sound inane like, “Your racquet face was facing that way, that's why the ball went there.” Or, “Try doing something with the return next time.” I stand there and watch, arms folded in the classic coaching pose, trying to stay focused and not letting my mind wander. I think of what I would do in their playing situations, “Would I make that volley? Could I return that serve? I need to be able to compete at their level”, I say to myself. I think about my game.

I made a breakthrough of sorts last week. It's not a major thing, almost a remembrance of what I once already knew, really, but I was excited nonetheless. I often tell the people I coach to hit “quality shots” and to hit “your ball”. What I mean is, hit a proper tennis stroke at a certain speed and at a certain depth that you know that you can hit all day. If you can do this, these shots become highly effective. I experienced this hitting last week. I know it sounds simple but I haven't been able to do it until now, due to, my opinion, the lack of a forehand. My newfound confidence, in my forehand, has sparked my backhand and now, my ground strokes are effective once again. I used to do this when I was in my prime but I can't believe how I had forgotten the feeling.

I'm just shy of challenging one of the young chaps on the team to test out my findings. Instead, I feel like the ugly girl at a high school dance, wishing and waiting someone would ask me to dance. In this case, hoping someone wants to hit, do some drills and extra work after practice. Or, even play out points. It never happens. I can't help but feel like I'm missing a major opportunity here. It is often said by many, if you want to improve your game find someone that is better than you. Hitting with someone better, should in essence, raise the level of your game. They say. They don't tell you that someone better, someone more accomplished, seasoned, someone with outstanding strokes doesn't want to hit with you. And why would they? Those persons probably have more than enough people to hit with, equals if you will. That's the biggest problem I'm having right now. I'm in between. I'm trying to find quality people to hit with, to train with but it's almost impossible. Perhaps next season they will seek me out to hit.

I'm only a month and a half from the biggest tournament/challenge of my life. The question isn't will I get beat, it's how bad will I get beat? I'm hoping to battle and stay on the court as long as I can. I'll liken my match to the scene in the movie, “300” when the dude, blood lust in his eyes, jumps into a group of enemies. He gets stabbed right away but before he dies takes out 30 of them. That's how I want to go out. Or, if I have any luck, I'll draw another middle aged tennis bum. We'll have a great match. After it's over the loser will joke to the winner how they now have to play the #1 seed. I hope it's me.

It was like a flaming arrow through the heart, a searing remark spoken by another person, confirmation of my abilities and where I'm at in my tennis career. A product of my age? Probably. Reality has yet to sink in, I refuse to feel the sting of it. Am I nuts? Why am I such an optimist? My optimism is making me look bad. My pride and ego are pushing me aside, wanting a piece of anyone that steps in front of me on the tennis court. When pride and ego are combined they're uncontrollable and remind me of that character on Seinfeld, Izzy Mandelbaum (played by Lloyd Bridges) who hated to lose, always challenging Jerry saying, “You think you're better than me?”

I got hired as an assistant coach for a college team in late January. I'd be coaching both the men's and women's teams. I was excited, because it was a different opportunity, a challenge of sorts. It would be college, higher education, the student athletes would be more intense and dedicated to the sport. They would want to be there. A distinct contrast from the high school game, which I had enough of. It was on to bigger and better things as I saw it.

It couldn't have come at a better time. Most of all, it was totally unexpected. I had applied and had forgotten about it. There were so many times I applied for assistant coaching jobs and would sit around waiting for responses. The waiting drove me crazy. This time I put it out of my mind as soon as I applied.

I was in Florida in early January working on my forehand with my coach. It was a week of intense training and it felt great. Finally, I started truly understanding the stroke. I could feel, in my body, the different stages of the swing. Up until that week in January I had been putting all the emphasis on the finish, the end point of the stroke, if you will. Also, the point where I started my swing had the wrong emphasis as well. This time, focus was put on the bottom of the swing, the place where you get the power from. It's the energy point just before the ball is struck. It made a world of difference focusing on that aspect. The path of swing is also different, it's more level, far less steep of a swing I was doing before. For the first time in over twenty years I felt like I was back. My confidence had returned. It felt like the days when I was younger and how I hit the ball when I was at my best. In my estimation, the work I did in Florida, paid instant dividends, which, what I was hoping to achieve when I went down there. I know, I still have much work to do, but it feels so friggin' good. Hence, my goal of revenge and to beat someone I have no right beating.

Working at the college may have been the stroke of luck I had been waiting for. Being around young players with a high level ability has really inspired me and could perhaps aid me in my quest. You see, the major problem that a tennis player faces, mainly me, is finding someone to hit with. Another hurdle, finding someone slightly above your ability. They say, if you want to improve your game, find someone better to hit with. Hitting with someone better should, in essence, raise the level of your game.

But why, someone with outstanding strokes, more accomplished, more seasoned and/or younger would want to hit with me? I thought I may have solved that problem when I got hired to coach at the university.

At the beginning, most of the time, I felt like a stooge. I was tentative and meek, but as the weeks have gone on I've began to feel comfortable and confident. All I want is the guys to want to hit with me, hoping they'd benefit in some way. I thought I was doing good until yesterday, feeling like I had made strides. I began to think that was happening, until yesterday. After practice, one of the better boys said, “You know if you ever want to hit...” I'm thinking, here it comes, my day, the respect, I'm not that bad after all, these young lads think I'm equal to the task, “...you could hit with my dad. He's your level. He's 53...” That's all I heard. I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. Maybe I'm not who I used to be, but I'm going to recapture my youth one way or another. My inner Izzy Mandelbaum took over. This kid obviously thinks he's better than me.

I love June, the month. Ah, June, the bridge between spring and summer. The trees will be in full bloom, the grass will be ready to be cut and that smell will be in the air. It is a nice smell and I'm not talking about fresh begonias, I'm talking about, revenge. Hee hee, ha ha, hoo hoo.

It's quite funny. In fact yesterday, I was just thinking about what my motivation was for this mighty quest for glory on the tennis court. Why do I want to become great at tennis? The answer is simple and like anything in life: I just want to become better. I want to be the best that I can be, it's that easy. I want to be the best player, the best coach, the best teacher etc...I just want to improve and become better at what I do as a tennis person. That, and revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge.

Yes, it's true. Not only do I want to play great tennis and be able to compete at the highest level possible but I want to avenge some painful losses that I've suffered to certain individuals over the past year or two. I know, I should let it go and move on but I can't. It's unfinished business as far as I'm concerned and it needs to be addressed. Vengeance is the lifeblood of competition, it's the battle cry of warriors, both of past and present and it is my battle cry. June will be here soon enough, then my summer of revenge will begin.

The necessary steps are being taken and the preparation has begun. My training is beginning slowly but hopefully in the next couple of weeks I'll be able to take it up a notch. There will be more on the steps I've taken to recapture my greatness in future blogs, I assure you. And, make no doubt, mark my words, write it in blood, my game will be up to snuff come June, but now I'd like to explain how I want the revenge to go down.

I was inspired partly from a guy I saw play in the men's open division in Cincinnati last June. Coincidence? Because it's June? I digress, he was an ordinary looking guy, probably late 20's early 30's. He walked out onto the court wearing brown shorts, they kind of looked like cargo shorts but I wasn't sure, a plain white tee shirt and on his face, big tortoise shell glasses, ala the 80's. He carried two racquets and a gallon jug of water. That's it. Very unassuming and nerd like. The man he was playing had a nice tennis bag, cool outfit and looked the part of a tennis player. He went through all the stretches and prep work that you'd see from a serious athlete. This nerd, my hero just sauntered onto the court like it was just another day. My initial thought was, “This guy is going to get his ass kicked. I mean, two racquets and a gallon jug of water? Look at his outfit? Come on, this is a tournament, pal!”

Little did I know. He destroyed the other guy, the serious tennis type fella. This dude was getting pissed by the minute too, because I know he thought the same thing I was thought when we saw 'el Nerdo walk onto the court. “This is going to be easy.” He probably said to himself.

Well, I want to be that nerd guy. The unassuming one that walks onto a tennis court and destroys people. I even have the glasses too. What better way to achieve revenge than wearing these? Sans fake mustache, of course.

I was thinking about wearing glasses anyway because in June, my allergies kick in and they wreak havoc with my contact lenses. So, the big glasses might not only be a misleading tactic in my plot for revenge but they're practical as well.

Now, the only difference, I just got a brand new tennis bag, a nice one. But, what I'll do is leave it in my car. I do carry a lot of stuff, extra clothes and what not. I'll just leave all that stuff in my car. I'll walk out onto the court carrying two racquets, I'll probably have more than two because I like to have four, just a weird quirk with the number four I have. Again, I'll leave the other two racquets in my car. I won't have just a gallon jug, I'll have a Coleman thermo jug that I like. Other than that, I'll be just like that nerd guy. I mean, I will wear proper shorts, they just won't be flashy, nor will my shirt. Yeah. I'll have the big frames, my two racquets and a water jug. Oh, and a towel, he had a towel. That's it.

I'd be kind of like a super hero if you think about it. Unassuming character with big glasses, turns into a “super” tennis player, yep, Superman. I think I'm ready for the challenge.

The best part about playing tournaments, well the bigger ones, is there's an electricity in the air. It's hustle and bustle, snack bar sales soar and it's fun. In Cincinnati, not only was there a men's 45 draw, but a men's open and a junior tournament going on right on the other side of the clay courts. It was cool, some kid was wearing the same sneakers as I was. We chuckled. It was a moment. It was like I remembered from the 80's. Playing tournaments with several other draws going on. It was an event, not just a piddly old tournament. It was fun and social. I met people and mingled amongst my peers and talked tennis. Compliments were thrown around, “Hey, I really like the way you serve.”

“Thanks, you're backhand is awesome.” That type of stuff. If, in fact, I play in this tournament again, I plan on playing in the open and 45 division, just so I get the maximum tennis out of it.

This particular tournament, I only played one match. The first match, my opponent didn't show up. It vaulted me into the semi's where I had to face the number two seed. A gentleman, ten to twelve years my senior. This, would become a theme for the summer of '11, playing older dudes. Dudes nonetheless, it was on and I quickly found out, no matter what your age is, if you're ready to compete then you can be dangerous. For me, I was ready to compete, my forehand, however, had different ideas on this particular day.

Up until this first match, I'll call it my first match, although technically, it was my second, I felt kind of uneasy about my forehand and how I was hitting it. They day before I was rallying with a high school kid that worked at the club. He was playing in the junior tournament, so, he had something at stake as well. I remember working pretty hard, getting a good sweat in. I was mad at myself for not being consistent enough.

Outside the courts, in the parking lot, were a dozen or so military personnel. I believe they were Air Force, seeing how there is an airport nearby. It could've been Army actually, come to think of it. All of them, just came back from some kind of run. They were doing a fitness test, I overheard one of them say. One of the dudes was leaning on my car, he had his forearms on my trunk, his head resting on it as well. I said to myself, “Great, some sweaty bastard getting his sweaty slime all over my car.” Then I remembered, that's our military sweating on my trunk. The ones who protect our freedoms and our precious way of life. I wanted to applaud him and thank him for dripping his manliness onto my car. “Thanks for your service! Your sweat is symbolic of your sacrifice, sir. Semper Fi and be all you can be, my friend.” But, I didn't. They had left. I wasn't thinking about my forehand anymore.

The worst thing that can happen while playing tennis, besides either shitting yourself or getting shot from a sniper that's perched in the trees just outside the court, is tentativeness. Being tentative is my worst nightmare. It's self-doubt on steroids and during my warm up it reared its ugly bulbous head. I could feel it. Not only would I be in battle with my opponent, 10-12 years my senior, but I'd be battling myself and my stupid tentativeness. I went down pretty easy in the first set, 3-6. Missing forehands miserably, backhands as well. The worst shot, though, had to be the forehand approach. I either netted the it or sailed it long into the fence. I was looking like the older man.

I started the second set where I left off during the first, my tentativeness covering me like a wet blanket. I couldn't discard it. It stuck to my skin and I felt suffocated. I was going to be tentative until I decided not to be. The time came when I was down 2-5. My serve was broken for the second time and it looked grim. One of the hardest things in tennis is serving out a match, the finishing. Even the mightiest of tennis players tighten up at this point. This happened to my opponent, while at the same time, I loosened. My tentativeness blanket lifted. Three games later we were even, 5-5 and I was serving. Unfortunately, my non-tentative run only lasted those three games, I was broken and he held, 5-7. Game, set and match.The only consolation I took from this loss, the gentleman who beat me ended up winning the tournament.

From that sad day in Cincinnati and throughout the summer, I kept trying to wrangle myself out from the tormenting shroud of tentativeness that I thought was holding me back. When in fact, the biggest thing holding me back was my total lack of understanding. That led to being tentative. After a dismal defeat in August, I came to the conclusion that I have no idea what the hell I was doing in regards to my forehand. No idea whatsoever. So, I stopped playing tournaments and began to focus on the next step. What the hell am I going to do about the forehand?

June 23, 2011

Cincinnati is a sprawling metropolis. It has a some cool places like King's Island, a giant amusement park. Right across the highway is a tennis complex, home to an ATP event that takes place a few weeks before the U.S Open every year. It attracts some of the best players in the world. Other than that, that's all I know. Of course they have their sports teams, the Reds and the Bengals. And, who can forget the hit television show, “WKRP in Cincinnati”. That station doesn't really exist but it was a very funny TV show.

I really don't know a lot about Cincinnati, come to think of it. I did drive past the city itself three years ago. It's relatively small and I definitely recognized some buildings from the opening theme to “WKRP in Cincinnati”. I also drove by the baseball and football stadiums, which were pretty awesome. I did a gig here last year and saw mostly what I'm seeing know, suburbia. Malls and chain restaurants dot the countryside, there's almost no sign of culture at all. In fact, I didn't think any kind of culture existed here, until today. I was driving to the tennis complex where the tournament is taking place. After ten or so miles of highway and ugliness, the scenery changes. The houses begin to take on character and neighborhoods reveal themselves. Some of the places I drove through today reminded me of home. Like I was driving in Brookline, Newton or Arlington. I could sense some history as I made my way through the quaint streets of Mt. Lookout. What a cool little place. Nestled in between two massive hills, this dainty little town reminded me of Europe. Now, I've never been to Europe, just England and China but I've seen pictures of Europe. It felt like a little village in Bavaria or somewhere like that. The buildings were brick, small and very close together. Some had thatched roofs too. In the middle of this town was a roundabout. That's what made me think of somewhere in the German countryside.

Somehow, I got sidetracked and that was all I wrote that day. The location of the tennis facility was very nice. Usually, tennis courts are situated in beautiful areas and that's how it should be. I will reiterate, driving to the tennis courts was one of my favorite things about the trip. It put me in the right frame of mind. It made me feel comfortable and at home for some reason. I wish I had gone back to the town itself, Mt. Lookout, to perhaps have some dinner and hang out at the coffee house there. In retrospect, that's what I should've done. The only negative thing, creeping about, lurking around the corners of my mind, was the fact that my forehand was crap. I carried on.

This particular tennis complex, the Linder Tennis Center, was massive. It had sixteen courts in total, eight hardtru clay and eight hard court. It's a tennis player's paradise. Equally impressive, there's an indoor club right across the street. I was completely impressed, hopefully you are as well.

I got the chance to hit the day before the tournament with a high school kid that worked at the facility. For the life of me I can't remember his name. He was a nice kid though. I tipped him twenty bucks for hitting with me, which, I think, he was grateful. My forehand seemed to be cooperating at the time and I felt okay. When I say, okay, I mean somewhere in between complete confidence and yikes. Still, probably pointing towards yikes. I had no problem in my first match, beating my opponent, 0 and 0. That's right, double bagel! He probably would've gotten a few games if he had, indeed, showed up. I won my first match in a walk over because the guy I was supposed to play didn't make it. So, it goes down in the books like this: A. Moschetto d. D. Meredith, 6-0, 6-0(Wo).

I look at it this way, I won my first match in Cincinnati and my forehand wasn't a liability.

I've just finished my bagel and fortunately my coffee is still warm. That perfect warm, you know, the temperature in between scolding and cold. This temperature window of opportunity is fleeting so I sip earnestly and with urgency.

The tick tick tock of the clock in the kitchen clashes with the soothing sound of the washing machine in the basement. The swishing beat and whirling rhythm is music, a song, each cycle, a new movement in a classic piece. The next movement is titled, spin cycle. I chuckle to myself.

Someone knows what I'm talking about, with their air tight alibis, rugged jeans and black tee shirt. Somehow, they manage to escape the daily grind of life, living underground and only coming out at night. They sleep in or they don't. They're in a coffee shop early in the morning getting coffee because they can't sleep, their life consumed with living it incognito, below the surface, unnoticeable to the rest of society. They are your spies, your runaway convicts or just someone on the run from something. They're a government agent or a witness that doesn't want to be found. They're rogue, good people who got caught up with some bad apples. Set up by the ones who trained them. Whoever they are they're hackneyed and played out. One movie after another, these types are there. Do any genuine loners of the oblivion really live their lives like this? This stereotype exists in our minds with their boots, hairless chests and jacked bodies. You never see them at the gym though.

My Action Movie:

Is there a gym for individuals living underground? Is there an underground gym that's literally underground? Yes, and you don't have to show an ID to get in. Better, you have to talk your way in, that's part of the code, part of the way of life of the loner/action movie hero. My hero impresses the gym boss with his wit and gets a free month's membership.

Intrigue follows after the workout as he exits through the parking garage. Of course there's a parking garage scene. Suddenly, headlights come on and dart out at our friend, the genuine loner. The car screeches to a halt and a big hairy arm points at our man carrying his work out bag and says, “I saw you. I saw you looking at me, not wiping down the elliptical machine after I used it. You better not tell the manager.”

“Or what?”

“Or this.” Through the window a dirty towel is hurled, narrowly missing the hero. “Next time, it'll be dirtier.” Yells, the hairy armed man. The car drives off. Where would he go if he couldn't go to the underground gym? He'll be damned if he has to go and join Gold's or even worse, Planet Fitness. Gross. He doesn't want to make trouble, he's out of the game. He just wants to live his life and lift weights, preparing for the unexpected mission/job he'll be forced to do in the next scene.

The Next Scene:

Sitting at his kitchen table, sipping coffee, from the coffee shop, some thuggy looking dudes bust in telling him so and so wants to see him. He fights back with the dudes but gets knocked out. He comes to on some type of round couch in a dimly lit room. He hears the thumping of disco music from the other room. Rubbing the back of his neck, he wisecracks, “That music is giving me a headache.”

Don't want to give you too much information about my movie...

How easy is it to write an action movie? Pretty easy if you ask me. I've got the makings of a blockbuster right in front of me. Hope you liked the wisecrack too. It's okay if it was kind of lame because he can be lame in the wisecrack department. It's not his job to be funny. This is not a comedy after all. I mean, it could have more comical tinges to it but we'll wait for that when the punch ups occur. Until then he says a somewhat witty line showing the viewers he's not scared and that he'll find a way out of this predicament. Witty lines show his heroism and carefree attitude towards life.

Also, we as viewers get a sense of what it's like to be him and how he intends to kick the ass of the people who put him here. A rematch with the thugs will most definitely happen.

These types of scenes wouldn't work if the guy was like, “What's going on? I'm doomed, I've never been in this situation before. I'm dead. I better do what I'm told here because if I don't I'll be in big big trouble. I know, I'll reason with them when they get back to do whatever they're going to do to me, they have to be reasonable, right?”

Not good. We'd hate the guy if he acted like that. No, the characteristics of an action movie have to be so: the main man has to be witty, has to be brave, has to be handsome and in shape. He doesn't have to know all the answers but has to be willing to learn. Somehow, he does figure it out and saves the day or is vindicated. Whatever path is taken, humbleness is always a good trait for these characters. Sure, there have been some twists on this theme and humor has been served when the main character is set up with a buffoon, the oldest trick in the books. But hey, you already know this.

The story of my life is this: I haven't got what I want out of it thus far. Is this the story of your life? That's right, “your” is in bold and italics for emphasis. I will assume the answer is yes for most of you. For me, my goal in life is simple, quite simple actually: beat someone in tennis that you have no right beating. Defeat someone so good it defies logic. Win a match so epic it equals the 1980 Men's Olympic Hockey Team's victory over the Russians. Something like that. Is it too much to ask for? I say, no. Anything is possible.

I've had this dream/goal for several years now. Ever since I stopped playing competitive tennis twenty years ago it's been eating at me. Like termites crawling around inside the walls of a house, chomping away, not satisfied until the roof caves in. I don't want my “roof” to cave in so I decided, five years ago, to make a comeback. And even though I'm realistically past my prime, I still feel I have some great, solid years left in me. I believe I can get better and play at a high level yet again, for my age that is.

Yes, I am middle aged. That doesn't mean I can't beat someone younger or defeat a man, or woman, my own age with world class ability. No, it doesn't. Again, anything is possible.

Last June, I started “the comeback”. I felt good, physically. Mentally, I was present and accounted for. My forehand, however, atrocious. My confidence, low. I carried on though, sallied forth, that sort of thing. My so called tennis tour started in, all places, Cincinnati Ohio. Which is quite the tennis mecca and I'm not being sarcastic. The following excerpt is from last June's pilgrimage to Cincinnati. In the very near future, there will be other excerpts from that trip and my tournament experiences from last summer. I will definitely explore my state of mind and try and explain the train wreck that was my forehand. Yes, was my forehand. All of this leading up to the big tournament in Brewster, Mass., this June.

June 20, 2011

After an eleven hour drive I stopped in Akron. It made sense because it's on the way to Cincinnati and they have a comedy club. I'd camp out for the night at an Econo Lodge about nine miles west of the comedy club and closer to Cincinnati. It was a nice break from the travel and I'd do a spot at the club.

I was concerned about the bed bug epidemic sweeping the nation. Before my trip I checked out the bed bug registry and to my delight, no bed bugs at “the Lodge”. But, concentrating on one issue/problem, like bed bugs, you take your focus away from other things, oh, um, like stains. Yeah, peculiar stains. Stains that sneak up on you when you least expect them. Because I'm checking the bed looking for any sign of a bug, I miss the huge white stain on the blanket. It made the blanket quite crusty in fact. I didn't notice as I was laying on it until I got up from my nap. Again, too busy looking for bed bugs. I thought the worst immediately, “Did I just nap on some other mans seed?” No, this stain was too big for it to be that. If it was gizz then I give this guy a round of applause because it was massive. Then I thought, could it be from a woman, the remnants of a night of loving? I didn't know if I should've been grossed out more at the thought, but I wasn't. Rational thoughts were creeping into my brain by now, what if it's just soap and they didn't rinse it well enough, makes more sense right? All I had to do to prove it was to smell it. If it smelled like soap it was cool. I smelled it. My conclusion: I don't know what it is. I mean, it smelled somewhat sweet and fruity but I don't know. I slept on the opposite side of the stain, that was my solution.

Next was the bathroom and the blood stain on the rim of the bath tub. A small little drop, yes it was. I also found what looked like a pubic hair near where you put the soap. I didn't put my soap there. What happened in this shower? I've seen enough crime shows to make me believe I've stumbled upon a crime scene. Rational thoughts again, the cleaning woman was working so hard scrubbing the tub she cut herself. The pube is just a pube.

Oh, I forgot to mention, there were two bars of soap in individually wrapped plastic. One of them was open and had a small shard of soap in it. Just like we all do at home. Take the old small soap and attach it to the bigger full bar. Is Econo Lodge trying to save money?

This hotel room would be great if I were a forensic student. If I wanted to be CSI, this room would be heaven. Perhaps this is how they test forensic wannabes, put them in an Econo Lodge in Akron Ohio where there are strange stains on the sheets and blood spatters and pubic hairs in the bathtub.

Of course I was a wimp and didn't request another room.