I'm a helpless tennis junkie. I've been playing the game for 30 of my 37 years. My junior career was hardly stellar—if I ever got past the quarterfinals of a USTA event it was pure luck, and even then I rarely took more than a few games off the top or second seed. But the sport stayed with me. No matter where I've been, backpacking though Europe or hitchhiking across North America, I always had my racquet with me. To this day, old sparring partners will offer me a couch to crash on if I'm ever in their town.
So, last week, when the Tennis Channel Open—the first big tournament in Vegas since Alan King backed the Alan King Classic in the '70s and '80s—took over the Stacy Darling Memorial Tennis Center, a sprawling megaplex off of Washington and Summerlin Parkway, I volunteered as a driver. I wanted to see this thing from the ground up.
February 23
I report to the transportation office for my first shift at 7 p.m. I sit for an hour with the other volunteers and we gossip about Andy Roddick, the event's headlining star, who would soon pull out. "Even if he does," I said, "you've still got a slew of top-20 players: Lleyton Hewitt, James Blake, Robbie Ginepri, Nick Keifer." My first assignment involves none of those guys—I have to go to the airport to pick up a guest of an Australian player named Peter Luscak, who is the No. 2 seed in the qualifying draw. According to the slip, the flight arrives at 11:03 p.m. "I hope this run isn't too late for you?" Minette says. Well, I'm a night person anyway. Plus, I get to take the Mercedes (official sponsor) home and rest up first. Sweet!
I get to the airport at 10:50 and station myself at the luggage carousel with the other guys who stand there in ill-fitting tuxedos, wearily holding signs. I'm not there for more than a minute when someone taps my shoulder.
"You with tournament?" It's a tall, blond man with a broad Australian accent. Must be Luscak. He's holding a flower.
"Yes," I say. "I'm Michael."
"Peter. I'm glad you're here."
"I didn't expect you here, and I take it that flower is not for me."
"Oh no," he laughs. "It's for my girl, Elena."
I'm convinced that there's a lab Down Under that genetically modifies Australians to be friendly; I've yet to meet an Aussie I didn't like. Peter is no exception. We kill the next 20 minutes talking about his goals (he's ranked 116, and wants to break into the top 100), his first taste of Vegas ("I came a day early to get the gambling out of my system!") and how the Outback Steakhouse is not exactly a fair representation of Australian culture.
I drop off Peter and Elena at the Suncoast ("Oh, it's a monster!" Peter exclaims when Elena asks where they're staying), and as I'm about to get back into the Mercedes, a cherry red Honda Accord pulls up next to me. Someone inside has apparently noticed the "Tennis Channel Open" sign on the car. The passenger window rolls down and out pops the head of a young girl, 17 at the oldest, with big hoop earrings and blond pigtails. She's practically screaming: "Oh my God, oh my God, please tell me you just dropped off James Blake!"
"No I haven't"
"Well, was it Andy Roddick?"
"Nope, sorry."
Her enthusiasm drops alarmingly.
"Well, was it anyone famous?"
"Define famous?"
"Um, I dunno. Someone I've read about in People magazine."
"No, I just dropped off a qualifier ..."
The window rolls up before I finish my sentence.
February 24
My six-hour shift begins at 3 p.m. I get my official volunteer shirt. Although it's labeled as "XL," the brand is Elesse Italia, and European sizes are a little smaller, so it's feeling a bit snug on my 46-inch chest. I feel like I'm sporting a Britney Spears midriff, but I'm assured I look fine. At least I'll be memorable as the driver with the hairy belly button.
Favorite passenger by far: a player from San Diego named Abigail Spears. I drive her three times today, and she is very chatty.
"They have a new system now, one that doesn't give you bonus points for beating higher-ranked players," she says. "That's a shame, 'cause I had a great run last year, got to the third round of the Australian Open, but, man, my ranking has really slid."
She asks what I do for a living, and when I tell her I'm a writer, she perks up.
'Wow, we're pretty similar," she says.
"Come again?" I say.
"I mean, you wouldn't have it any other way. Some players forget where they came from, and that's an attitude I just don't get. I mean, I'm so grateful that I get to play tennis for a living! I know this is what I love to do, and I wouldn't have it any other way."
"So you have your tennis racquet, and I have my laptop ... And what we do beats setting up an endcap display at Walgreens."
"Totally!"
March 1
At 32, Israeli player Tzipora Obziler is one of the older players on the circuit. She's never been ranked higher than 107, and she's only occasionally qualified into the main draw of a Grand Slam tournament.
"I lost today, 6-4 in the third," she says. "A point here and there, and who knows?" She sighs but quickly regains her confidence. "The great thing about tennis is that we don't have to wait long to prove ourselves, the way Olympic athletes do. I'll just do better next week."
Tzipora is relocating from the Suncoast to the Howard Johnson on Las Vegas Boulevard. "The Suncoast is nice, but $150 a night, what a joke," she says.
"How did you come across the HoJo?" I ask.
"On the Internet. It's only $39 a night. Now, that's within my budget."
The tournament was a last minute addition to the tour. A check on the USTA website shows that a tournament calendar from only last month didn't have the Las Vegas venue on their list. This short notice didn't give the female players much time to find a host family or cheap accommodations.
Tzipora lost her singles match and had already lost her doubles match—but she was still playing. She got into the doubles draw as a lucky loser, a player who gets in when someone else pulls out.
"Vegas is pretty interesting," she tells me.
"How so?"
"The weather, stores, casinos—it's all interesting. It's a lot more fun than the time I played in Bogota, Colombia. They had soldiers armed with machine guns escorting us to the tournament site through these scary, drug-infested neighborhoods."
"So on that level, this is okay?"
"You got that right," she winks.
We pull into the Howard Johnson parking lot and she turns to me: "Is this a safe hotel?"
"Well, you won't get mugged on your way to the ice machine," I tell her.
"Works for me!" she says and slings her tennis gear out of the back door and into the lobby.