In 1976 I won a tennis tournament. It wasn’t sanctioned as they say and few people outside the area even knew it was going on. It was played in the old automobile building at Fairpark in Dallas on a cold December weekend. The court surface alternated between polished concrete and a basketball floor with tennis court lines faintly outlined on a platform that was elevated 8 inches above the ground. If you drew a “basketball floor” it would come complete with a basketball goal just about where you would normally line up to serve. Truth is I loved playing in that building and my game, what little there was before this day, was kind of suited for the off centered oddities of the venue and surface.
This little tournament only had 16 players. That’s it just 16. There was no big BBQ party, no tournament desk, no real stadium court. By all of the normal standards it was bush league. I mean most of the time you played between inner city basketball games with screaming, yelling, moving, hollering people everywhere. They never even noticed you or that silly game some people called tennis. It was bizarre and bush league in every way....except for the players. Every one of the 16 players were anything but “bush league”. That little tournament had 8 of the top 10 players in the state and no one was ranked under 20. There were sectional titles and national championships and a long list of storied tennis pedigrees in the draw. No, it wasn’t bush league at all. In those days I was “getting better” as some would say. “Not quite there”, is another phrase used to describe my fairly out of control approach to the game. Lot’s of lessons, money, racquet clubs and travel in that group. Except for me and a couple of other mortals in the draw. I’m sure every one and most likely me too, expected that I would provide some warm up for the big boys early and be heading back home by lunch on the first day. I’m not going to bore you with major triumph or a blow by blow commentary of each match but let’s just say I had one of those couple of days. I got better. Each match I found some groove, gear, inspiration, genius whatever you want to call it. I was “TREE’D” for those tennis oldies out there. As the tournament went on I kept getting better. Guys would just shake their heads when the match was over and grumble and walk off. My win in the finals was witnessed by my mother and a host of family members belonging to my opponent. All with extreme tennis history. It was an ugly ending as tense tennis matches can often be when the “David whacks a Goliath”. I have to think my mother was the only happy one in the enormous Building that Sunday which was filled with hundreds of people and only two tennis players. I was in another place completely different from happy. Anyone who has had that sort of unlikely success knows what I’m talking about. Heart racing, it’s hard to sit down, you are tunnel visioned, and relived most of all that you didn’t screw it up somehow...but happy...no way. What was not even remotely clear to me 40 years ago is as clear as a desert sky today. I had turned a corner. I was no longer the outsider and my name would be playing first on that team. I became a believer.
Dab the tears from your eyes for a minute and then realize that the corner I turned was not just a tennis one but the belief that drive, hard work and a dream can accomplish more that anyone would ever believe. Sitting out on the Old Maverick Road this evening watching a beautiful Fall sunset in the cool crisp desert air reminded me that it’s never too late to “turn the corner” again.
Miles
Viva Terlingua
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