Wow, this is SO MUCH FUN!

So, my original intention for this blog was to post entries about funny things that happened to me or that I saw happen during my time here in Madrid. There were quite a few during the first month, but I already wrote about those either on Facebook or this blog. So in the absence of fresh material, I've decided to add a few entries about hilarious events from the earlier years of my life. Now everyone please read, then point and laugh at me.

During my early teen years, my father's love of the game of tennis rubbed off on myself and my brother and sister. We all picked up a racket and began taking weekly lessons in an effort to master "the gentlemen's game". With each improved forehand shot I began dreaming of strutting out onto center court at the All England Club at Wimbledon. The soft grass beneath my shoes, the classy Brits roaring my name as I wave and humbly smile. As Becker once said, "I was born on center court".

Flashforward to Durham Junior Novice tournament, age 15. I was ready to begin my quest for super stardom by shredding through a field of amateur teens who would surely be overmatched by my crushing serve and elegant fashion. For me it was more important to look like a professional, rather than to play like one. Rather than spend hours rallying against the practice wall, I preferred to thumb through the pages of an Eastbay catalogue in search of the perfect outfit that would dazzle my oponents to the point that they would simply concede defeat as soon as they stepped onto the court with me. Unfortunately, my opponent on this particular day preferred to actually play the match.

He was a bug eyed young chap, who flinched his eyes as if he was constantly staring straight into a strobe light. During our warmups I could see that his shaky groundstrokes and humble attire would be no match for me. Matt Todd was his name. Funny coincidence. He may share my name, but on this afternoon his number would belong to me.

For someone with dreams of playing on the big stage, I certainly didn't relish the opportunity in reality. I soon discovered that the more people who were watching me, the more timid I played. And the worst possible thing for my psyche during a match is to build a big lead. Once ahead in the score, all I could think about was how to piss it away to the chorus of chuckles and murmers from the bystanders. Before any real crowd had formed around the court, I jumped to a quick 5-1 lead in the first set. I had not really thought about how I was playing at this point, or what I had done to be so successful. On the cusp of closing out the first set, my worst enemy joined the match: my neurotic mind.

I began to overthink each shot, and as the spectators increased in number (including my entire family) the wheels began to wobble. My early momentum that was much like a freight train charging down the tracks had slowed down to something more like a tricycle being navigated by a drunken Ray Charles. Puttering along, erratic, unpredictable, and completely lacking vision. My shots were no longer smooth and sweet, but choppy and tight. The ball is not finding the strings at all, but rather the graphite frame of my racquet. Each mis hit shot made a loud "SHLOCK" or "THUD" sound that echoed throughout the court. I think I overheard my mother say "Is he not looking at the ball?"

My oponent, in the midst of this unforseeable turn of fortune, had no intentions of accepting this victory with humility and class. He began to prance around the court pumping his fists, and yelling out "Whooo! Come on, this is SO MUCH FUN!" I would've smashed a ball right at his fluttering eyelids, had I retained the ability to make contact with the ball. I was in the midst of a full talespin at this point. Meltdown level 5. My mental state at this moment was probably somewhere between Greg Norman on the 18th green at Agusta National and Howard Hughes during his final cracked up years. I'm not sure I knew where I was or what I was supposed to be doing at this point. Probably as close to shell-shocked as a non war veteran could feel. I think I may have even attempted a few left handed shots out of desperation to find success. The remainder of the match concluded rather fast with my blinky eyed opponent rushing the net, way too eager to shake my hand and congratulate me on my collapse. He didn't linger long, for I'm sure he was in a rush to join his family for a celebration banquet at the local Sizzler. This was likely his biggest success since learning to use the potty.

Sadly, I had to show up the next morning for another match in the consolation (nice word for loser's) draw. My shattered ego suffered another drubbing at the hands of some nameless novice player. It didn't matter who it was. On this day, a raccoon armed with a sand wedge could've steamrolled me. On the car ride home while thumbing through an apparel catalogue, my identity began to reform and piece itself back together. Perhaps the plaid Nike shorts and the matching Navy polo were the answer? And yes, with the classic white crew socks with the swoosh so perfectly gracing the top. A $64.99 catalog order later, and I was ready to rebuild my game from the bottom up. If Monica Seles could come back from being stabbed, why couldn't I bounce back from this?