Vantaggio Side

     The professionally done sign in the lobby of Ariel Dunes 2 indicated a daily round robin at the Destin Tennis Club.  Named a Best Of in 2015.  9-11 am, $20 bucks.  To play on the green Florida clay was well worth it.  Perhaps some local players, similar to my tennis pals on Texas.  They would surely welcome me into the group for the 4 mornings I would play.  Monday through Thursday.  Unexpected, but had my gear and my annual month long tennis hiatus was done.  Back to it on the clay, work out the physical, the mental, and the anger.  Peaceful is the only way to play, it is true.  After a very beachy, boozy Sunday, followed by an outstanding Pontchartrain dish at Acme Oyster Bar, somehow awoke 30 minutes prior to the Monday morning event.  Got ready quick, out the door, and at the pro shop at 10 til.  Ready for these Florida dudes.  Ready to demonstrate Isner trained superiority, lone star grit, and Vantaggioian attitude.  It was going to be a smashing.

     The small  pro shop was tidy.  It fronted the community pool, which was full of about 15 mature ladies doing water aerobics.  They were in a circle, all seemed to know the routine.  How nice, I thought.  Palm Trees, Crape Myrtles, and other greenery was everywhere.  Oh, to be a 'resident', an actual 'resident'.  They probably had names for people who weren't 'residents'.  Out Of Towner Downers or Beach Buttholes or Yank Danks.  Signs were everywhere.  'Residents' this, 'residents' that.  I felt irritated as I walked in the shop.  Ready to take it to 'em.  Hopefully, I would play a 'resident'.  The nice assistant pro, Holly, greeted me with a fine simile and active demeanor.  Paid up for the round robin and she introduced me to Guido, who was making out a check.  A nice fella in his 70s, he had a wide smile and a fabulous Italian accent.  Holly sent us to the back courts where everyone would collect and warm up.  Behind the pool, the back courts were merely 100 feet away.

     The complex has 8 very well maintained clay courts, ice water jugs, rakes, and shaded benches.  Guido got in his car and drove to the back courts.  We met at the spectator benches on the outside of the fenced in double court.  The clay was smooth, soft, and perfect.  Let the sliding begin!  Chatted with Guido for awhile.  Got a new knee a year and a half ago, now the other one hurts.  He only plays doubles.  Kept watching his watch, bringing up how Bob was supposed to come, and a few others.  Spoke of this guy who was 85.  Rides his bike to play sometimes.  Always moving, never stopping.  Guido himself talked fast, with huge laughs in between and suspect listening.  He was a Steelers fan.  He said he didn't remember the bullshit Benny Barnes interference call in Super Bowl XIII, but he was lying.  Told him we owed them one more, reminding him of the Emmitt Cowboys revenge.  He laughed, even doubled over, before looking at his watch again in worry.  It was 10 after now, no one was coming.  Had this ever happened, I inquired.  He laughed again, this time with a melancholy tone.  Sometimes they have 5 or 6 he said, usually Mondays were good.  He didn't know.  He had just talked to Bob a couple of days prior and he told him he would see him Monday.  That meant that he should be here.  But he wasn't.  I offered to hit around with him, but he was insistent that he could only play doubles.  He pointed to his very tan left knee.  The vertical scar was a foot long.  He had to go prepare to go to the beach.  "No tennis, beach day.", he said in his Italian sound, "Maybe I see you Wednesday, eh?".  Absolutely.  Hope so, Guido.

     What was left was drills and serves.  Alone, on these perfect courts.  Towels, water, 2 fresh cans, white bandana, and the classic Australian Blue Vantaggio grey T-shirt.  Addidas Bounce fit just right, ready for the dirt.  Babalot raquet. the kind Nadal plays with . After two laps, 10 pushups, and 20 squats, set up the Isner drill.  3 balls, spaced equally on both sides of singles lines, 6 total.  One on the baseline, one on the service line, one by the net.  Starting from the middle of the base line, each ball is retrieved and returned to the starting point.  One at a time, from the baseline to the net, left, then right.  It is exhausting, and a very good footwork drill.  I slid, I dug.  Then some serves, then a drill, then some serves, drill, pushups, squats, then some serves.  Sweat was pouring, water was guzzled, shade was sought.  This went on for 2 hours.  The clay marks told the story.  My serve on the Vantaggio Side, the advantage side, needed to be over to the right and deeper.  In general, work your opponent's backhand, especially with the serve.

     It was a good workout.  Shed my soaked shirt and headband and, like Nadal would, put on a dry shirt before leaving the court.  Checked in at the pro shop and Holly assured me to show up the next day and my fee would be covered.  No one was around, the pool was now empty.  It was only 11 o'clock.  It's a beach day for me too, Guido.  Far from the Grand Slams, the Tennis Channel, the endorsement contracts, and the incredible Williams sisters, tennis is dying.  No-showed in Florida.  And it is sad.

**word is Keck is meeting with Jimmy Connors to discuss an invitation to KOtC11.  Perhaps at TBar M in Dallas.  Negotiations are on-going...

Strawberry Cream

At the 2018 Wimbledon Men's Quarters the bracket rings true.  All the hustle, all the troubles, all the smashes, all the clashes.  Left is Fed and Nadal, of course.  Easy like.  Fed will demolish the lanky South African Anderson on his way to the title.  Like mowing, his grass always smells cut.  Nadal gets washed out by Del Po, the red dirt still sweating out of his system.  Novak looks good, but stressed.  He plays Kei Nishikori, the Japanese serve return master coming back from injury.  Hungry, very hungry.   

The token American is Isner.  He should be celebrated wildly, his career is the lone notable male American tennis career of an entire generation.  Many records, that serve, Miami.  He's tall.  Maybe Querry, maybe his career is notable.  Stevie The Grit will always be beloved.  Sock stinks.  Lets move on.com, please.

(Sorry Wayne, referring only to singles.  Your boy's accomplishments are incredible, especially Bob, who teamed with an almost 50 year old Martina Navratilova and won the 2006 U.S. Open Mixed Doubles title.  So much hardware.)

First time Wimbledon Quarterfinalist Isner plays Canadien Milos Raonic.  Isner will be destroyed.  He is happy and satisfied with what he's done.  It is his nature.  After Miami, he flopped.  After 70-68, he flopped.  Raonic has too much game and John McEnroe still echos in his ear from his time as his coach.  Definately has more swagger than Big John, whose shoulders must be worn completely out.  His trademark between the legs bounce prior to his serve is classic.  And very cool.  Of course, Fed will strawberry cream either of these North Americans quick in the Semis.

With Fed in the final, and the eventual winner, the runner up will be the Argentine Del Po, who made it there by forehanding Kei off the court.  Kei, who steadily battled a crazed Novak to get to the Semis, could only look over to his coach, Michael Chang, and shrug.  That forehand of Del Po is an all timer.  Maybe the US Open for Novak, but whose gonna beat a rested Nadal in New York?

Then the alarm went off and I woke up on a Tuesday.  Maniacal Monday was over.  Sweet Jesus, Serena's gonna win another title!  That moon was just a sliver this morning.  Looked like a spaceship coming through the sky.  Wonder if Del Po won his suspended quarterfinal with Gilles Simon.  He was up 2 sets to 1.  Think it's about to come on.  Can't quite remember that dream, but it was weird.  All the Wild Boars get out of that cave?  Fed might win this.

**postscript.  it is now wednesday.  the dream perfectly predicted the opposite of what actually occurred.  the dream was 0-4.  all the Wild Boars, and thier coach, were rescued from that Thai cave.  Saman Gunan is a true hero.  God bless his soul.  And, DelPo did beat Simon.

Grass Transition

Everyone knows who owns the clay.

Nadal even looks red.

His dark Spanish skin wrapping his used and busting muscles, which connect to his sturdy bones, all controlled by a white hot nuclear reactor flame of want to, need to, have to, and will.

His 11th Barcelona title, coming after his dominance in Monte Carlo, gives a good indication of who will win the French Open.

The ball whizzes off his strings, it loops high, and falls quick and sharp.

Nicking lines, biting down, going deep, severe angles.

Every point is fought for desperately, no mistake is tolerated without disgust.

The routines, the tics, the picking.

Scrowling around, rarely smiling during play, saving the beaming flash of complete joy for hoisting big silver trophies.

Ten at Roland Garros, eleven is likely.

The grass transition is the question for Rafa, will he win again in his whites.

He plays like he thinks he is the best tennis player ever, and knows he is the best tennis player now.

He is ranked #1.

Perhaps he will play Federer after Paris.

Perhaps he will win.

This Ain't No Exhibition

    The Northern Irish are scarred people evidently, pick a side or not.  It doesn't matter.  That was years ago.  It's proven all the Irish and British men can come together and defeat the rest of the European men in golf.  The since disbanded Seve Cup was played bi-annually from 2000-2013.  It featured the islanders against the rest of continental Europe.  Only eight events were held, the island boys went 6-2.  Seve Ballesteros knew the island fire, knew why punk rock was born there.  These people have lived on their heels for millinias.  Fending off Viking raids, many times unsuccessfully, old entitled Romans and their vast kingdom, Germany's blitzkrieg bombs, various religious claimers, and countless other recorded and unrecorded scenarios.  No wonder the initial American patriots, and others to other places, went floating for a calmer life, almost undercover as colonists.  Most stayed where they floated.  Not sure they all got what they wanted, but America is America.  Still searching west for calm, all the way to California.

    Rory McIlroy is now more Floridian than Irish, geographically anyway.  His golf record is titaniam, already worthy of legendary status. Only 28, he's likely to add more valuable hardware.  Perhaps later today.  Already, money is no object.  At his age, the simple  power of compounding almost assures he will be a billionaire one day.  Maybe he already is.

     He seems tremendously honest, with his priorities, goals, conduct, and answers to questions.  Once asked about the Ryder Cup, he termed it an exhibition, which the golf bluebloods scoffed at.  How dare he call this exhibition an exhibition!  Samual Ryder, an English businessman and early golf nut that made a fortune selling seeds, would have likely not been offended by the term.  Also, Rory once had the nerve to say he preferred playing golf in 80 degree weather and little wind.  Hmmm, me too.  After chunking a club into the lake st the 2015 Cadillac event, his supposedly controversial comments were (brace yourself):  It felt good at the time but now I regret it.  Frustration got the better of me.  Again, the uptight scoffed.  At what?  Immediately, my mind  is reminded of the satisfaction felt at destroying a Babolat racquet just a couple months ago.  A put away volley clanked off the frame and into the net.  On break point! An hour later the action was regreted, frustration did get the best of me.  If I'm honest.  Secretly, I know I could do it again one day, and will want to, and will feel it logical and warranted.  I hope I don't, but if I'm honest.

     Yell in his backswing, McIlroy might just stare you down and tell you to frack off.  Probably have to be around him some to follow his accent, but he's relatable.  Even his well publisised engagement-abandonment to Danish tennis professional Caroline Wozniaki seemed like authentic cold feet.  After a short phone call, his final twitted sentiments wished Woz all the happiness she deserved.  Since then, Wozniaki won her first grand slam title, historically reclaimed the #1 ranking, and became engaged to David Lee, who played solidly for the last Dallas Mavericks team to really put up a legitimate fight.  Happy events, all.  This Rory is a prince, his wish for her came true.

     For what its worth, Rory's professional golf results have slipped since, his main achievements attained during the same time frame he was with Woz.  Something about the Danish.  From Gorm The Old to his son Bluetooth, and the rest.  They usually get what they want.  For better, or for worse.  Maybe she placed an old Viking curse on ole Rory, but probably not.  She doesn't seem that type, a friend of Serena, a gracious and graceful lady, a humble tennis princess.  But, even a humble tennis princess must be a killer competitor.  So Vantaggio.  Jason Keck, co-founder of Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company, calls her Woz.  It is a term of endearment.  Her endorsement brand is strong, her capitalism value already proven, her magazine images lengedary in their own right.

     In truth, Rory's had some injuries, something about an ankle or muscle pulls of various sorts.  Probably got brainwashed by weightlifters and started bulking up.  He doesn't seem to talk about it, which is respectable in its own way.  No excuses, no reasons, only results.  Rory too found love since.  This time the feet were fine, rings exchanged, and all endured a likely long, long Catholic wedding.  Reminds all of the famous old Irish folktune:  "Oh, the Os!  Oh the Micks!  Came to America to find our chicks!"   Mrs. McIlroy is a New Yorker.  And Rory is back in the final Sunday pairing of the Masters, golf's greatest prize and the final trophy he needs to earn golf's Career Grand Slam.  Sarazen, Hogan, Player, Nicklaus, and Woods are the 5 names on that short list.  Honestly, I hope he does win it later today, I'll miss it due to a Nantucket jam session, but it will play out and be reported out.  Men From Nantucket may even cover 'Oh, The Micks' in his honor.  If he wins.  We should know by 6CST.  He's chasing an American, Patrick Reed, and other Americans lurk, but I don't feel unpatriotic.  Any more than hoping Roger Federer smashes Jack Sock or pulling for Caroline Wozniacki to win the 2018 Australian Open.  This ain't no exhibition!  Honestly.

Deuce Juice

Down down down.

Love 15.

Love 30.

Love 40.

Back against the fence.

Then a gift.

15 forty.

Free swinging winner.

Cross court.

30 forty.

Need a big first serve.

Got the ace.

40 forty.

That's some deuce juice.

Get it to even.

Deuce juice.

Keep on believing.

Now its all tied.

Looked em in the eye.

Bout to let it fly.

Bout to make em cry.

Then I dropped a drop.

Like I was taught.

Heavy and dead.

Ad in.

Time to pronate.

Deep knees.

High toss.

Inside out.

Line was caught.

Winner, winner.

Taco dinner.

Dripping deuce juice.

Dripping, dripping.

A Recognizable And Distinct Gesture

 
     The bird gesture is so universal, one clear meaning worldwide.  Regardless of technique, the middle finger is known.  On the other had, the peace sign seems the same as the victory sign, or the literal #2, as if a point guard were calling out a play.  Close the peace sign fingers together, flip up the thumb and you naturally have the guns up sign.  Texas Tech, I think.  But, back to the bird for a moment, the hysteria it can cause, the rage from where it comes, the full double bird.  My father, a tough man, once endangered his family by trying to run a trucker off the road for flipping him the bird.  He wanted him to pull over and fight.  This went on for 20 miles, at 80 MPH, passenger window down, my father leaning over my mother and screaming at the alarmed trucker through her open window.  He was not pulling over for his beating from this crazed man.  My mother was surprisingly calm, my youngest older brother was ready for action, and I was observing the insanity, completely involved.  Eventually, things cooled, the trucker sped ahead, no doubt regretting shooting that particular bird, and we pulled over for gas and snacks.  "The bird must be the worst thing in the world," I thought.

    I've never given my father the bird, but it has become my favorite gesture to use for net tape points won while playing certain tennis opponents.  The 'excuse me' wave gesture always seemed insincere.  In fact, most can't even look their opponent in the eyes when performing this sham gesture.  There is no truth in it.  Also, why not the gestures when the tape shots don't dribble over?  When they are rejected back at the player who hit the shot, disappointment and woe is real and tragic.  Perhaps there is a statistic regarding % of tape shots won.  It is a skill at which certain players are likely superior due to topspin spin rates or net clearance ratios or contact point.  Or all three.  Nevertheless, it is odd.  If we really all wanna be apologizers on the court, go all in.  Double down.  Apologize for winning the racquet toss.  "Sorry, guess I'll serve."  Apologize for an ace.  "Gosh, I really smashed that, fully extended, optimum torque angle, boom.  Sorry, bet that surprised you.  Big point too.  Aww man.  Bummer."

     If tennis is a game of matches, determined by sets, determined by games, determined by points, then all points are appropriate for celebration.  This is nothing more than math, keep the hurt feelings on the other side of the fence.  Perhaps the bird, or double bird, is too provoking for effective use on the tennis court, but the birds have their place somewhere.  As with most things, selective and modest use is best.

     For Vantaggio, the peace sign seems a natural fit.  No other Tennis Apparel Company has an official gesture.  To make it a recognizable and distinct gesture needed for the differentiation, the functionality, and the persistence worthy of the Vantaggio brand, perhaps the Double V should be considered.  Double down.  The familiar peace-like gesture with the two fingers, palm facing out with the second V formed overhead by the forearm, elbow, and flexed bicep.  Think of it.  The Double V.  Marketing gold.  T-shirts, logos.  Deodorant companies everywhere would line up.  Magazine covers everywhere of winners sporting the brand through this Vantaggio gesture.  Endured.  Overcame.

     Finally, be careful to whom you shoot the bird.  Its passive acceptance should never be assumed.  And further, if you're going there, amplify it with its twin, the double bird.  Look them in the eye while gesturing.  Double down.  That's Vantaggio!

*Vantaggio Tennis Apparel Company has expressed 'concern and alarm' regarding use of any bird gesture on the tennis court.

The Complete Obsession With Opponent Destruction

 
     The old shall rise again.  For those who think 36 is old.  Consider Roger Federer, the oldest man, at 36, to earn the #1 tennis singles ranking.  The next oldest was Andre Agassi at 33.  No fluking that, no fleeting summoning of old glory, no joke.  He has come back to dominate his sport for an extended time, winning 3 of the last 5 grand slam titles, demonstrating his excellence, sportsmanship, emotional steadiness, and fluid grit.  His reaction time advantage still intact, it has always been the foundation of his game, allowing for the trademark extension of his form.  The fully mastered backhand, the active feet, the timeless serve.  Once, long ago it seems, Fed was put out to pasture by some.  Even then he was widely acknowledged as the best ever.  But pastures aren't for Roger Federer, he will gallop away one day, no fences, no gates.  The best ever, for sure.

     Surely, Serena Williams is his tennis icon soulmate.  The sport is fortunate, these icons are worthy of admiration on many levels, especially the complete obsession with opponent destruction.  Physically, mentally, strategically, absolutely.  In all ways they are destroyed.  On all surfaces the icons have prevailed.  Hemispheres, continents, indoors, or out.  They have been grand, slamming the doors, overcoming, enduring.  And, they are both so fly, so Vantaggio.  Mommy Serena will be #1 again, and daddy Fed could hold on to the top spot til he's 40.  Or beyond.

     Less about them, more about the opponent.  Maximizing their own games, sure, but also minimizing the games of their opponents.  Serena's glare, Roger's tactics, Serena's hammer, Roger's one-hander, Serena's class, Roger's class.  High class tennis killers.  Even in defeat, the class shines.  And even defeat is not wasted by either.  It is captured and used to fuel the complete obsession with opponent destruction.  Yes, Roger and Serena, the King and the Queen of all the courts.

Between Hippie And Preppie

     Somewhere between hippie and preppie.  No pastels, of course.  Ever.  Pastels have no pop.  They have no place in tennis.  Prints should be banned.  No prints.  Multiple logo placements, multiple logo sizes, multiple logo colors.  Androgynous bias, with functionality and styles.  Reasonable fits, slenders have no room.  Only tights should be tight.  Inhibiting the extention needed to play true tennis is a tennis apparel crime.  Minimize the cotton.  It is a fundamental fabric, but only appropriate as part of a blend.  100% cotten or the ridiculous combed cotten are also not appropriate.

     Inevitably, shoes will be developed.  Make them durable.  That's it, durable.  The rubber and the upper.  Leather has been rendered obsolete.  It is a nice development for the cows.  They would much rather their skins become couches or automobile bucket seats or motorcycle club jackets.  Either way, like racquet grips, leather is no longer needed for tennis shoes.  Shoe color is a matter of personal preference, which can and should, be varied.  Dark or light.  Bright or dull.  Narrow or wide.  No pastels.

      Thermal wear should be very smooth looking, appropriate for any occasion, versatile and effective in a number of conditions.  Chills, winds, mists, and rains.  High quality zippers and tie strings that never recoil.  Collars are cool and an opportunity for innovation and distinction.  Again, any design interfering with the technical or athletic requirements of the player is fatally flawed.  Functionality at the bottom of any pant is important, and go deep on the pockets.  Yes, the pockets must be deep.  Deep enough to hold many balls. On both sides.  Drills, efficiency, etc.

     Marketing should be constant and focused, all channels coordinated, interconnected and similar, persuing multiple creative avenues of apparel opportunities.  Rowing teams, table tennis, sponsorships, customized event attire.  Deliberate and recurring re-evaluation/adjustment  process must be scheduled early on.  Incremental changes over time.  Nothing, nothing is sacred.  Disciplined and illuminated communications.  Candid.  An offensive strategy to maximize and diversify tennis league enjoyment should be deployed quickly.  Utilizing all methods of cultural influence to inspire the ovarall mission of the brand.  Music, literature, art, dance, and glowface.  Clean, easy, obsessed.

     Roger Federer, the best.  A true slammer.  20 slams so far.  Impossible backhand, easy easy easy.  The king of the down under.  Internal disgust of mistakes, they are never accepted, only endured.  So Vantaggio.

This Potential Madness

     Clearly, the chronic perceived potential of American male tennis professionals will be smashed by the reality of their awful and pitiful collective outcomes in 2018.  Sure, millions of dollars will be won by them, and a few will earn their way into the top 50.  A few.  But no one will be a major, or even minor, threat for a grand slam title.  Not since Andy Roddick's 2003's U.S. Open glory has an American male won a grand slam singles title.  15 years, a wasted generation, a failure of the USTA micro-culture, a shame.  Watching the 2017 Laver Cup illuminated some of the problems.  Strikingly different from the American female players, the men are uninspired and, frankly, a bit goofy.  But, why?
 
     Certainly Isner epitomizes the era, no evolution, so golly gee, so beatable.  And, seemingly, fine with it.  It is true that the meek shall inherit the earth, but they will have no grand slam titles.  These days, when an American male makes it deep into a grand slam bracket, it is always a surprise.  The names are familiar, and somewhat accomplished.  Stevie Johnson, perhaps the grittiest American male player, is easily the most decorated college player ever.  Sam Querry, the first American male to play in a grand slam semifinal in over a decade in last year's Wimbledon tournament, holds the all-time record for consecutive aces with 10.  Of course, Isner's 2010 Wimbledon first round match with Nicolas Mahut is legendary.  A match that took 3 days, over 11 hours of court time, and featured 223 total aces.  Isner won 6-4, 3-6, 6-7, 7-6, 70-68.  He lost in the 2nd round to Dutchman Thiemo de Bakker 0-6, 3-6, 2-6 in 74 minutes.  Quietly, Isner was forced to withdraw from the doubles bracket that year due to a blister on his toe.  Surely, his partner Querry was supportive and felt bad for "Big John".  Jack Sock, the current top ranked American at #9 in the world, is the current yankee king, but he's never made a grand slam Quarterfinal and his elbow likely wont have a long career considering his extreme whiplash forehand motion.  Ryan Harrison's 93-129 decade career match record indicates no real potential.  Donald Young peaked in 2012 with a world ranking of 38 before going on a 17 match losing streak that he's never completely recovered from.  In his 14 year career, he has never won a ATP singles title of any kind.

     The perpetual next generation, who knows?  Jared Donaldson, who I personally watched get destroyed by Argentine Maximo Gonzalez just last year in Houston, once beat Belgian David Goffin in 2016.  Frances Tiafoe, the third highest ranked teenager in the top 100, has lost 29 of his first 38 professional matches.  Taylor Fritz, already married with a family at 20, could develop quickly.  He's got good bloodlines, his mother Kathy May was a world top 10 player in the late 70s.  Perhaps some of her American female mojo will help destroy whatever virus has infected the men and Taylor will break through.  However, speculation just feeds into the chronic perceived potential narrative of American professional men's singles.  Do something!  As the U.S. tennis public, we should be able to reflect back with pride, remember the highlights, revel in the victories.  But there are none.  And it will be no different in 2018.  Thankfully, the always sobering Australian Open ends this 'potential' madness every year.  They are what they are.  And I don't know why.

**If either would agree to do it, Serena or Venus Williams should be the next Davis Cup Coach.  Something must change.