Bad Line Call

Tuesday night is tennis night, and this one was just like any other tennis night, except that it was different. It was the last tennis night of the contract season, and I was playing my tennis nemesis, B. I expected to lose to B. that night; I just didn’t know how badly I would lose. I expected to lose because I always lose to him. It’s not that B. is in a totally different league than me, like he’s a tennis pro and I’m a rank amateur. We’re in the same league, and that’s what so frustrating about the fact that he always wins.

B. is a player who instinctively knows how to play the game. He knows how to hit all of the strokes. He knows when to come to the net, and when not to come to the net. He knows how to position himself when the ball travels to the opponent’s side of the court. His tennis instincts are as strong as a predatory lion’s instincts are when it comes to stalking an antelope.

If B. has a weakness it’s his lack of conditioning. Since our contract time is limited to one hour this isn’t a big factor. In fact B. compensates for it by his sheer will to win. Let me rephrase that – B. refuses to lose. He pushes himself to the limit whenever defeat is near. It doesn’t matter whether it’s losing a set, a game, or a single point. B. refuses to lose.

But something was different that night. We were tied 4-4 and I was holding my own. I had gotten to this score on occasion in the past, when B. would suddenly realize that he might lose. B. would focus with incredible intensity and his serves would blaze into the corners of the service box. If his service didn’t win the point, his groundstrokes would, always attacking my weak backhand until I either hit a short ball or a shallow lob, either of which was enough for him to put away the point. Of course, I knew all this and it would give me a case of the nerves just like an antelope gets when he sees the lion.

B. served in the ninth game. I could tell he was tired because he started to serve and volley. He wanted the points to be short like the quick kill by the lion going for the jugular. I just kept lobbing my returns and instead of sailing long, they were landing deep. This not only frustrated B., it also exhausted him as he sprinted back to make a return. With the game tied at 30 – 30 we start trading groundstrokes, moving each other from side to side, each hoping to hit a winner and end the point. B. hit a deep drive to my baseline. I couldn’t catch up to it, but I could watch it closely. I saw it land squarely on the line, and I immediately call it “out.” B. was too far away to challenge; he just bent over to catch his breath. On the next point he opened his forehand and the ball sailed out of bounds. I had just broken his serve.

I served out the last game. On set point B. was totally spent. After he returned service he came to the net to rattle me as he had done so many times before. I lobbed him and he didn’t even try to make a save. He just turned and watched the ball land in bounds. I had won my first set in 10 years.

But what about that bad line call? I knew it was the wrong call as soon as I made it. Since then I have thought long and hard about it. If he had won that point, he may have won the game and eventually the set. The lion feasts again. I thought of all of the injustices I had endured. Doesn’t it matter that B. foot faults frequently when he serves? Doesn’t it matter that B. enjoys trouncing me 6-0, 6-0 when I’m playing poorly? What about the times he gets his hot serve going and deliberately picks on my pathetic backhand return? And he keeps doing this through both sets of the contract hour. I know these are all rationalizations, serving me, the antelope. What would your call be?

The Handshake

The plane had landed at Philadelphia International Airport and had rolled to a stop outside of the gate. I knew that this was the time to make my move. I stood up and leaned over the mammoth figure still reclining in his seat. He looked at me crossly. “Sir,” I said, “you are the greatest basketball player of all time.” I stuck my hand out forcing him to reciprocate. “Thanks man,” he mumbled as he shook my Lilliputian hand.

Now how can you sleep when the greatest basketball player of all time is sitting directly in front of you? I couldn’t. All I could think of was what he could still do on the court against the Sixers new big man, Darryl Dawkins. The Dipper would just eat him up, I thought, on offense and defense. But that’s a fantasy. Wilt will never set foot on a court again. Maybe I’m dreaming this. After all it’s the red eye from LA to Philly and you’re supposed to sleep.

What can you say about Wilt Chamberlain? Most sports fans know that he scored 100 points in a single professional game. But how about the 50+ points per game he averaged for an entire season? Or the record 55 rebounds he grabbed in a single game against Bill Russell. Or the only time a professional player scored a double-triple-double – 22 points, 25 rebounds, and 21 assists. These records are as impossible as an asthmatic climbing Everest without oxygen.

In his early days he was unstoppable. The NBA felt it had to at least slow Wilt down so they changed the rules. The three-second violation, widening the foul lane, and both offensive and defensive goaltending rules were instituted to throttle The Dipper. They didn’t.

Why am I thinking about this? I’m supposed to get some sleep. Don’t you think Wilt’s sleeping in his seat?

As I board the plane late in the evening, I’m surprised at the check-in counter. I have just received a free upgrade to first class. I enter the first class section and see that there are more seats than people. Now I can really spread out, relax, and sleep. But wait a minute, who is this towering figure now boarding at the last minute that everyone seems to know. My God it’s Wilt Chamberlain, and he’s sitting in the row in front of me! How like Wilt to hold up an entire flight until he’s good and ready to fly. After all he’s probably the only profession coach who failed to show for his team’s games. Now what should I say to him?