By GUEST COMMENTARY BY JACK NEWORTH
This Sunday is the finals of the most dignified tennis tournament in the world, Wimbledon. Here in Santa Monica, the tennis isn’t quite as dignified, at least on the public courts. For some reason, they seem to attract a cast of colorful characters who could rival any reality show. And where I play, at Ocean View courts down by the beach, it’s no different, and I include myself. The stories below are true, but I’ve changed the names to protect the guilty.
Ocean View opened in 1987 after a year of construction, during which I got very acquainted with ear plugs. While the courts are country-club beautiful, they’re literally 20 feet from my apartment. Sometimes it feels like they’re in my apartment. Since we had endured so much, my wife thought we ought to at least learn to play tennis. But first, a trip to Big 5 to get outfitted. Her idea, not mine.
So, all decked out, we walked to the courts as “virgin” tennis players — there’s a joke there, but it’s too cheap, even for me. But as we watched the players rally gracefully, it became obvious, being in our late 30s, we couldn’t learn a new sport. We trudged home defeated. I never even took the price tag off my racket.
The next day, however, a friend invited me to play and within a few hours I was addicted — I even cut off the price tag. During the years, I became so obsessed with tennis that when my wife filed for divorce, she threatened to name Wilson Sporting Goods as a co-respondent — which was absurd, because I use a Prince.
Back at Ocean View, the first of my eccentric tennis buddies was Mario, a waiter, and quite the ladies man. His wife had gone back to Italy for a month and he’d already met a sexy woman at a club whose name, as fate would have it, was the same as his wife’s. Mario said it was an omen. After all, if he were to ever say the girl’s name in his sleep his wife would be none the wiser.
And everything was fine until the moment his wife stepped off the plane. When she demanded the truth he tearfully confessed everything. Within the year he was divorced and, fittingly I suppose, dumped by his girlfriend. Trying to remain positive, and true to his tennis bum status, Mario said it gave him more time to improve his game.
I met Gary, a boiler room, precious metals salesman,when my friend,Mark,had to cancel their game. Gary said he had been ranked No. 364 in the world, but Mark assured me even my caliber player was better than nobody. Talk about a backhanded compliment.
Gary was a loud, obnoxious braggart. Other than that, he was fine. When I beat him 6-3, 6-3 I came to the following conclusion: There are very few things I am 100 percent certain about. Among them, the sun rises in the east and Gary was never ranked No. 364. In the meantime I asked Mark if he knew who was No. 363.
Rick was a doctor in Venice, with a pony-tail and the serene look of a yoga teacher. But on the court he displayed a surprising temper. Afterwards he struggled to apologize, which wasn’t necessary but he insisted.He was in the middle of explaining about an overbearing father when I noticed a young couple in the park, behind a tree... having sex.
The couple’s extracurricular activity definitely cut into my listening skills. But Rick was so into apologizing he didn’t notice. As we left I joked with the cashier that the city could charge more for that court since apparently it was X-rated. Just one more day at the cuckoo’s nest.
Wimbledon takes place only over a fortnight but Ocean View is open daily. To play, or observe the reality show, call (310) 399- 4891. (Jack Neworth can often be found at the Ocean View courts, still trying to learn a topspin backhand. Contact him at)
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on July 7, 2006. Read the original PDF.