Sets 434-436:

Stuart v. C. at Vista Ridge High School. Winner: C. 6-3, 5-7, 7-6(3).

What, Me Winning?

Sets 429-433:

Stuart v. S. at Little Stacy Park. Winner: Stuart 6-2, 4-6, 6-2, 6-2, 6-2.

My Mojo: An Apathetic Wall.

I could not get up any enthusiasm for playing this match. I felt like my affect was completely flat, and I just could not get emotionally invested in this match at all. I really didn't much care if I won or lost and, to tell the truth, I thought I would just get blown out of the water and that would just be the way it was. I felt like I was not moving at all, but I was getting to the ball every time, and not just getting there, but being set up well. I felt like I was not swinging my racquet at the ball, but I got well-placed shots in almost every time. And even though I felt like I was just pushing weakly at the ball, a couple of times I stopped to consider my swing after it had finished, and the racquet was past my shoulder on my forehand right where it should be. If I had any empotions going in this game, it would have seemed phenomenal to me to have my play so divorced from my perceptions. But all the reaction I could muster was something like, "Hm, how about that." The weak point in my game seemed to be my serve, but like I said, I didn't really care. Even my serve was in good form for some of the time.

A couple of times I thought to myself, "Now why the hell am I doing so well in this match?" Then it changed to "Why on earth am I winning?" I was kinda puzzled when I stopped to think about it. But I was coasting too much to think most of the time. It seemed to me that I felt lazy, but my movements were not matching my attitude, as my motion was actually good. Everything seemed to fall into place for some strange, unexplained reason.

Even in the second set, which I lost, I didn't care. So I lose. Maybe I'll lose the next one. Maybe I'll lose the match. I was just an emotional iceberg couch potato who had somebody take over my body while I rested. And I didn't care how I played in the third set either. We shook hands as I guess I technically won the match after the third point.

In the fourth set, a funny thing happened. I got slightly bothered. For some reason, I was thinking that if he won the fourth set, it would wipe out my victory, and we would be back to tied, and I would have to work and worry. This lasted a couple of points, and then I dropped the emotions again and just went back to being a lazy robot, in which domain I stayed for the rest of the match.

So maybe it helped me that I was able to divorce my emotions from my play so much. But I don't know why I felt like I was not doing anything spectacular, yet my shots were good and I got to almost all of the balls without much effort. Of course, I must have been putting some effort into it. After this five set match, on the way home, I could feel the effects of two and a half hours of play. I wasn't exhausted, but I could feel that I had exerted myself. Maybe I was just "in the zone" but completely unconscious about it. Strange.

A Turnaround Barely Puts It Through For Me, Then Puts A Cherry On The Whipped Cream

Sets 426-428:

Stuart v. S. at Travis High. Winner: Stuart 4-6, 6-4, 7-6(2)

My Mojo: Flipped 180 In Mid-Stream.

Usually I had played S. at private courts at his apartments. But he called me to say they tore his apartments down to build yuppie food. Bummer. I liked playing there. So we met at a convenience store, and went to Travis High. I guess it's sort of the end of an era, in a way. A mini-era, nonetheless, but still a bonafide era. Travis High was really loud, even though the freeway was kinda far away. I guess the sound just bounced right. But the weather was fantastic.

I started out playing even more of this malaise-ridden, poorly-formed ball humping that I had perfected the last two matches. And, naturally, the requisite depression and self-revulsion accompanied this symphony of miscoordination. The first set was almost completely garbage on my part. At least it was in my mind, but I didn't do nearly as badly as I did in my last two matches. We had a lot of long rallies, and it was really a close set, in retrospect.

Then I was able to push the reset button or something. The second set was much better, and my attitude was not swimming in the toilet. This is the drug I need. Good mojo turned around on a dime. Better than morphine. Well, maybe not; ask me on my deathbed. But it was good.

The third set was highly competitive all the way up. This is the kind of game I like to play. At least if I'm going to lose, let it be close. And let me not shoot myself trying to twirl the gun. Back and forth it went, with every advantage I built up being neutralized back to evenness, and vice versa. So it was at 6-6, and we had to play a tiebreak.

Then I broke out. I felt my footwork start to pick up, and my shots paid the rent, even though they didn't buy the casino. I was able to do what I had to and won the tiebreak 7-2. That was definitely the cherry on the whipped cream at the top of the sundae.

More Of The Same Foul And Ugly Scene

Sets 424-425:

Stuart v. B. at Pharr. Winner: B. 6-3, 6-4.

My Mojo: Way Low.

This was basically just part two of the match I played with my last opponent. Nothing worked right, and I was even more frustrated with my play than I was in the last match, even though points-wise it looks better. Still, I was off on my rhythm, I was hitting the tape a lot, I was hitting the ball with my racquet badly, and I was misjudging my shots. With me there to beat myself, who needs an opponent? The side of a barn would have beaten me even with most of its boards missing. And most of my boards were definitely missing.

Allow me to explain now that I am not just denigrating my opponent's play by making the excuse that I just tooled myself. B. played very well and was a complete master of extreme angle shots at my expense, especially when he got to the net. There was never any question over whether he would win. And my mood got fouler and more greasy as time went on. I kept exhorting primal screams of emotional agony, and denigrating myself verbally and mentally. I could not rid myself at all of the black cloud above my head. After the last point, when I lost the match, I let out a brutal cry of frustration and threw my racquet, which went much farther than I had intended, flew over the fence, and got stuck in a tree. Well, that made me feel stupid. I saw shock and concern in my opponent's eyes, and I apologized for my outburst and went to shake his hand. Nothing like making an ass out of yourself to bring you back to earth, I always say. My humility was compounded by having to walk all the way around the facility to retrieve my racquet, and then by having to shake it out of the tree.

Digging My Own Grave

Sets 422-423:

Stuart v. K. at South Austin Tennis Center. Winner: K. 6-3, 6-1.

My Mojo: Doomed.

This was not my absolute worst play, but if this match was a calculus problem, you might call it a "local minimum." Definitely a low point in my portfolio. My rhythm just seemed a bit off for most of the match, so I was hitting the tape a lot and getting a lot of shots that were just barely out. I was also getting an incredible number of mishits on my racquet; I was hitting the rim, miscalculating spin, and missing the sweet spot WAY too much. I was also not able to get to the net much at all, and when I did, I managed to goof it up. I guess it's just brain damage creeping up on me. No wait, maybe it's everything else that is damaged and the brain is watching in horror...

I can't say it all went completely badly, though. I got some good shots in occasionally. Also, when he rushed to net, sometimes I got some good lobs and passing shots when I was able to set my footwork and my body position correctly. But my messed-up rhythm was affecting my attitude more and more, and it all led to a grinding spiral into the drainpipe. Toward the end, I wasn't hitting good shots, and my attitude was deteriorating, so it all created a feedback loop of black noise that wrapped around me and crunched me like a hungry anaconda. I was just doomed from the get-go.

Hallucinations Of Angels With Dirty Faces Dancing In Casablanca

Sets 419-421:

Stuart v. E. at South Austin Tennis Center. Winner: E. 2-6, 6-4, 6-3.

My Mojo: Viral (Literally).

Note from two days later:

I got incredibly sick about five minutes after this match ended. I thought it was an electrolyte thing, but no, it was pure, weird, evil darkness that has gripped me like a lion with a helpless monkey in its jaws, and has haunted me through the weekend. Maybe I've got cholera or ebola, but more likely, it's just some run-of-the mill viral gungasmudge. So much for a dashingly romantic sudden death.

Anyway, I guess I'll ruminate more on this match later, when hopefully I will have stopped shivering away my mortal soul. Suffice it to say that my opponent was a sweet beacon of pure light who crushed me mercilessly nose down into the pavement at the end when I showed my weak underbelly; sort of like a cop chasing down a meth addict who just called her mother something foul and wretched. She absolutely ate my liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti. But, great fun; when do I get to do it again? And what a dazzling smile and cheerful, kind attitude she had while she mangled my nads on the court. Of all the gin joints, um, tennis courts, in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. And so on. Of course, my unexplained hemhorrage of mojo near the end didn't help my case much; I was not leading the dance steps at all by the end, but rather, laying on the ground, cowering, screeching, "Not the face!". Say hello to my little frien'. Quite debonair, if I may say so myself, to have debased myself through my endgame play so methodically.

As my wretched disease seems to have obviously pierced the blood-brain barrier, causing me to go way overboard on the cinematic and theatrical cliches, I think I'll shut up now, at least until my body temperature won't fry bacon. I got it from the toilet seat, I swear. But, E., if you are reading this, I hope we both live to tango another day.

Four days later:

OK, I've recovered now. I got incredibly sick for a couple of days, was shaky for the third, but now I am feeling much better; well enough to have ridden my bicycle to work the last couple days and to have spent nearly two hours doing monjo full-on 85% cardio in the gym last night. Even though I was a little weak and goofy, my attitude, as usual, is one of "Hey, let's see if THIS kills me." And amazingly, it didn't. Kill me, that is. I did wake up kinda dehydrated this morning, but with a massive amount of water throughout the day, I was able to swat that particular mosquito out of the way.

So I guess now I'll blather on about the actual match. I came into this thing feeling pretty good. I was returning solidly in the first set, and getting good directionality on my shots. My play was very strong the first set and I felt like I didn't have much trouble winning most of the games in the first set. My serves were not ultra-magic or anything like that, but they were decent and I had no problem getting aggressive on a lot of points.

In the second set, I started encountering much more resistance from E. Her game ramped up, and I started tightening up too much so I was playing stiffly. In both the second and third sets, we started off competitive for the first few games but then I dropped my game toward the end. But in both sets, when I dorked out at the tail end of each one, it was for different reasons. In the second set, I fizzled at the end because my focus was dwindling, and so I was not able to naturally play with good form. In the third set, I just massively lost energy. I was confused by this, because I hardly ever just drop in energy level. I did keep a good attitude, though, and that helped keep some of the losing games close.

The last point of the match was one of the longest points I have played in a long time. It just seemed absolutely interminable; I don't know how long it lasted, but it was a very long series of rallies. I was frustrated during this point by my absolute inability most of the time to hit the ball anywhere but right in the center of the court exactly where E. was, so my failure to be able to properly strategize probably clinched the loss of the point.

Then, as soon as the match was over, I needed to take a couple minutes on the bench, because my energy was drained. That's when the wave of nausea hit, and the next couple days were absolute hell. I barely made it home and into bed, and was hardly out of the horizontal position for most of the weekend.