Sweat and Dirt... er, Clay

Fueled by the fervor of the Australian Open and by my complete lack of personal discipline to implement a solid exercise regime I finally went out and bought some new tennis shoes to accompany the racquet that I dragged down here but haven't used once in three months. Romain, one of my French flat mates had already told me that his father was an ex-professional tennis player, at one point the fifth highest ranked in France, and that he had been playing since the age of six. But exercise is exercise and war is war.

Up to now the only courts that I had known of to play public tennis were in trendy Palermo, all the way across town. But after a bit more online research and a few phone calls I found one close enough that would actually take a reservation over the phone for $25 pesos ($8 USD) per hour. Romain made the call and we were set. Heading out in a taxi just past noon in the sweltering South American heat we arrived at a cleverly woven complex of four courts directly beneath the freeway that dissects Buenos Aires. Much to my surprise, the courts were actually made of clay, something I had only seen on television. I felt like a real pro as we stepped out onto the smoothly groomed foreign surface, knowing all along that the youthful twenty three year old Romain was going to slaughter me. And after a quick warm up it became very obvious that my self-taught 'King-of-the-Dipshit'(*) style of tennis needs some serious corrections in the form of lessons in the not-so-far-off future if I ever want to improve my game, which I do.

The first set went down 6-1 to Romain but at least I made him break a sweat. Sarcastically, he told me that there is a rule in France where you must be polite and give at least one game to your opponent. For the second set I knew I had to change course if I was going to save face in front of this damn French dandyboy - he was killing me on the baseline and smashing my soft second serves anywhere that he pleased. I chose to play closer on the net and then to run my ass all over the court, which did throw him off a bit. At 3-3 and then at duece I managed to take the advantage but there my game fell short. We finished 6-1, 6-3 both soaked but smiling. When we went back inside to pay, the man behind the desk commented 'ahh... you're alive!' One more great day in BA!

(*) King of the Dipshits is a title that David Fortner gave himself years ago, meaning that amongst a bunch of friends that couldn't play sports very well (dipshits), he was the King. That turned into an annual event amongst six players that is now called the King of the Dipshits Annual Tennis Tournament, which I victoriously overtook the crown from David on our inagural outing, stealing away the self-proclaimed title - King of the Dipshits.