by Nic Olson

It was a quick tournament for me. It lasted only one day. No consolation or anything, just lose and you are gone. I played one set up to nine games, and there is no need for me to tell you the score, just that I lost the match and I won one game, think about it. I could blame the loss on a number of things, including my shoes, my racquet, that I cut my Samson-like hair, the wind, the simple fact that I suck, my inconsistent serve, my lack of practice in the past five months, I forgot to cut my fingernails, this bracelet I’m wearing, the fact that it was sponsored by a tea company, Scott left that day so I cried for hours, but I’ll just go ahead and not blame it on anything, and say that it was for the good of mankind that I lost. Or something like that. We’ll just say, through the most appropriate phrase (or not so much) that I can come up with, that I crapped the bed.

I wasn’t really angry or anything, just a bit disappointed. One of the old men, probably the Mizo son of Bjorn Borg, told me that my strokes were very strong, but I he could tell I hadn’t practiced. That is a bit encouraging, that it isn’t that I just plain suck. At least I can say that I played in a tennis tournament in India. I’m practically on the ATP Tour, with that kind of coverage.

There was a chair umpire with a microphone who announced the scores. There were ball boys, and they just freshly repainted the surface for the tournament. High class $2 tournament. Jeremy, you should’ve come. You could’ve taken your second singles title in your world domination. And we easily could’ve taken our second doubles title together. The number one seed hit two handed on his backhand and forehand. Like Monica.

Oh well, I guess there is always the Yellowknife Open. Then Wimbledon.