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HUMBLE BOOTY BEGINNINGS - PART TWO
HUMBLE BOOTY BEGINNINGS
Part Two: The Boot Professionalism
They say that time
is a relative concept. Thank God for
that because it means that somewhere within the explanation of time’s
relativity I could probably find a scientifically-justified ‘reason’ (excuse)
for the ‘apparent’ five week gap between my first two ‘weekly’ articles. I’d
abstractly quote Einstein here and there and before long I’d have trimmed down
that five weeks near enough to168 hours.
But enough of physics for now; it will suffice to say that for those of
you interested in reading on through Booty’s pre-professional tennis journey, I
have ironed out those niggly creases in time and regulated its inconsistencies
so that a week now represents a week* (*relativity
adjusted for). So let’s again back it up about 250 weeks (a little before
his Royal Federerness appointed himself king of tennis) and see how Booty’s
progress was, er, well, progressing.
One of Eric’s
personal character traits that first made an impression on me was his professionalism. The initial hint of this professionalism
literally made an impression on me when I tripped over his medicine ball before
our first practice hit together (as you’ll remember from reading Part One from
my article of last ‘week’) but his deep belief in giving tennis his all became
humorously apparent to me at the closure of our first tournament together there
in Toulouse in early July 2003.
The tournament was
at its quarterfinal stage and the draw now consisted of seven Argentineans, one
Frenchman, zero Booties (no pun intended), zero Willies (again, no pun
intended), zero Gareths and zero Juans.
That’s right; we’d all lost, giving way to eight clay court
specialists. We had however all
respected our rankings (it is important as foreigners in France not to lose to
anyone ranked lower than yourself as it adds to the already difficult task of getting
yourself accepted into tournament draws), so the tournament president was kind
enough to allow us one more night’s stay one on the clubhouse floor before we
packed up and moved on to the next tournament. Our road trip posse was
harmonizing nicely and seeing as our next matches were not scheduled before
Tuesday (it was now Saturday night) we had decided to celebrate a successful
season debut with pizza and a couple of beers.
As the pizza was
digesting and the beers were taking their initial effect, Juan entertained us
with a story of him being pulled over by police in
As is often the
case, the topic of discussion found itself being guided back to tennis. We talked about our successful hustle in make
it to
So Booty and I
played a very tightly-contested set witnessed by Gareth, Juan and the rapidly
dwindling supply of beers. The 6-6 set
was settled with a tie-breaker (let’s not name winners and losers because we
are all winners right? Well at least I was always a winner in Booty/Willy
practice matches until our first official tournament meeting later on in the
season where Booty put an end to my domination with a 3-set win in the final in
front of a very proud Jan and Big Cat Butorac).
Ok, so at the conclusion of our 7/6 practice set that night, during
Booty’s extensive warm-down stretch, his dedication to professionalism was
about to be demonstrated. Booty and I
were still basking in the euphoric glow of the post-exertion endorphin release
as Juan and Gareth were (in a more overtly manner) enjoying their own alcohol-induced
euphoria. To paint the picture clearly,
Juan was still in his sweaty clay-stained tennis gear from his match nearly 14
hours ago that same day. He hadn’t showered or stretched, he’d just been
‘taking it easy’ all day in the wake of his loss. He’d just made short work of six or seven
beers and was ‘feeling the buzz’ as he puts it. At this point, he strolls onto
the court near to where Eric and I are stretching, picks up a ball and one of
my rackets before casually making his way back to the baseline. At this point,
to the great astonishment of Gareth, Eric, and I, Juan turned around and
unleashed a full-blooded first serve at around the 190km/h mark. Given the fragile condition of my shoulder,
witnessing Juan’s ludicrously unprofessional behaviour obviously caused me to
grimace but the look on Booty’s face from something out of this world. It was
as if he’d lost the innate ability to breathe as his face contorted into a
perfectly expressive look of disbelief.
Remember, I’d only known Booty for a couple of days at this stage, so to
witness such an intense look on his face was as if I was offered a direct
portal into his inner-self, that part of himself that doesn’t comprehend the
function or even the existence of unprofessionalism. I was completely absorbed in studying Booty’s expression
as he himself was completely absorbed in his own of horror as a result of what
he had just witnessed. In that all-time
great movie ‘Apocalypse Now’ (inspired by Joseph Conrad’s novel ‘Heart of
Darkness’ – c’mon Phil, give us some related trivia please), just as Marlon
Brando – in his monologue towards the end of the film – utters those classic
words ‘The Horror, The Horror,’ Francis Ford Coppola should have opted to cut
to Booty’s facial expression of that night just to really sum up what true
horror really is, as felt and expressed by the human being.
And then, at that
moment, as Juan sensed the general mood of astonishment, he turns to us and
utters in his relaxed Samoan manner, his own classic words; “What could go
wrong?” (These words have since become
sacred to Booty, Gareth, Juan and me).
Now I know that
the true humour of a moment can never be justly portrayed to others who didn’t
personally witness it first-hand but let me just say that this is one of those
moments that you have to believe in God – only a divine being could so
perfectly construct such a moment. No
movie director/actor combo in the history of cinema has ever been able to
capture the perfect balance of that moment; the horror and incomprehensibility
expressed by Booty, contrasted against the total bliss of Juan’s ignorance to
the myriad of things that could ‘go wrong’ when serving a ball at full pace
with someone else’s racket at 2am while drunk and cold.
And in having the
existence of God confirmed by the happenings of that moment, I proceeded to
thank Him for having the foresight of presenting us with it after the physical workout of our set
because otherwise I would certainly have done irreparable damage to my
abdominal muscles. I can remember being
twisted and contorted into impossible positions as my stomach muscles locked up
into spasms while my body made futile attempts at digesting the humour. Alone there in that indoor court in the early
French hours of that morning, the four of us seemed to experience some kind of
divine communion. We were all choking
amidst fits of uncontrollable laughter as we vainly attempted to share in
detail with each other our individual perspectives of the comedy of the moment.
So despite having
all lost at the beginning of that day, the day was eventually capped off with a
very fulfilling night (which would not have been the case had one of us won and
consequently been playing the next day).
God was kind to us that night my friends (spoken in the tone of George
Costanza’s “the sea was angry that day my friends” during his briefly-lived
stint as a marine biologist): He showed us that big-serving left-handed
Americans are beatable on indoor hard-court; He proved his own existence,
evidenced by his generous gift of such a divinely-constructed humorous
experience; and, most relevantly to this article, He offered me an
unforgettable insight into Booty’s determined, ‘professionalistic’ nature.
After practically
no sleep at all, we left early for the next tournament (which was to be in my
‘home town’ of
Hope you’re
enjoying getting to know the Boot and what paths he’s travelled on the way to
where he presently is. Next week (I promise) we’ll explore the issue of ‘Is
Booty the easiest human being in the world to travel with?’ (Booty has to be a
high contender for this honorary title, especially considering the stated
pre-requisite of ‘being human’ which eliminates Gareth Keating from contention
– if Federer comes from the planet called ‘We Play Really Good Tennis Up Here’,
then Gareth comes from the planet called ‘We Are Really Easy To Travel With Up
Here’).
Humble Booty Beginnings - Part One
Introducing Booty, Willy and that Roger guy
(written enjoyably by Will Mason.)
Eric Butorac is currently the 33rd ranked doubles player in the world. That is impressive. Regardless of what they say, it's a big world out there, especially in tennis circles. But let's rewind the clock a little, back to humbler beginnings when Eric decided to step out from the shelter offered by home so that he could take on the tennis world in a bid to synchronize reality with his dreams. I can tell you confidently that Eric is of yet a way off from his desired tennis journey destination. And I can tell you just as confidently that his character holds all the tools necessary to take him there (his character and of course that big nasty left-handed serve and intimidating presence at net!). So let's go back and see just where he was at when I personally met him nearly five years ago!
¦It's early July 2003. I'm heading into Paris on the train after a weekend visit to my girlfriend's in Geneva. I have prepared a tournament schedule for myself and a few other guys and I am ready to take over the road trip reigns from my best mate Gareth who is arriving into Paris from Dieppe after the first tournament of the season. He is accompanied by a very laid-back Samoan friend of ours, Juan, and a friend of Gareth's that I have never met, 'Booty'.
I'd already spent four summer seasons in France playing money tournaments (not being good enough or rich enough to justifiably test things out on the 'futures' circuit). It is an understatement to say that I'd been 'roughing it.' I'd well and truly lived the typical cliche of an aspiring tennis pro (although things haven't as of yet aspired to where I would have liked!), only I think I lived it a little rougher than most! I never had more than a handful of jingling change in my pocket (paper money's for rich folk right?). I'd lived exclusively on bread and nutella for weeks at a time (not even real nutella, but the cheap, pasty, disgusting generic version). Sleeping wherever I could lie down, I'd get up and stumble on court for my matches looking like the living dead -- not really the ideal method for creating an aura of confidence around me in the eyes of my opponent. I do however admit that things had softened up somewhat as the years progressed. During my first couple of summers over here I would've laughed at the fanciful idea of rental cars and trips to Geneva! The point is, I'd roughed it and during the course of those four rough summers, I'd seen many a foreign tennis player come over to Europe brimming with hopes and confidence only to leave a month or so later, tail between their legs, never to return again. So by this stage I'm very sceptical about new 'toads' joining my tennis tournament posse (we refer to first time foreigners in France as 'toads' because all they can do is sit there looking un-pretty while they timidly observe proceedings - that is, timidly observe me do everything as they sit back on their toadly haunches understanding nothing and being able to help with nothing. Did I mention that I can be a real, impatient prick? I didn't; I can be!). A toad amongst the frogs; what could be worse? Gareth (GA) however, was an exception to the 'toad-rule', he did very well his first time over here and ended up staying in Europe fending for himself for the next four years (but then again, G demonstrates an exception to most rules and stereotypes). So when G assured me that this guy Booty would hold his own I was curious to find out for myself.
So as we meet up at Roland Garros in July 2003, the first thing I get is a hug of relief from G as he hands me the keys to the Renault Laguna we'd rented and says 'Willy, it's your show again, thank god' (G had been here only a month or so at the time and despite being by far the best 'toad' I'd ever encountered, the French remain a hard race to 'crack' in your first month). So he was very happy to no longer have to deal with road signs, autorouts, and the Frenchies in general. He briefly introduced me to this 'Booty' guy to whom I gave a reserved kind of greeting as I extended a warmer hello to my buddy Juan whom I hadn't seen for a couple of months.
Ok, 'hellos shmellos', now down to business. We have a tournament this afternoon in Toulouse (600km south of Paris - just short of 400 miles). Juan and I are scheduled to play at 6pm. It's now nearing 3pm. When you do the math, it doesn't look feasible. But in my time spent in France I am proud to say that I have become one of the few foreigners to 'crack the Frenchies'. I have worked my way up the 'toad ranks' to the much-deserved rank of 'brigadier general toad.' If you need a grand slam won, I'm not your guy. Talk to Roger. But if you need a perfectly organized French tournament summer, look no further than me. I know how their little French minds work, I can make things happen. So we have six hours of travel time ahead of us and half that time to do it. The private leer jet is under repair so it looks like 'water into wine' time. No sweat, the standard procedure gets underway: first step is a panic-free acceptance that we will be late; then we will drive ridiculously fast, we will be calling the tournament 5 times throughout the trip with all sorts of excuses in an animated attempt to keep the dreaded 'forfeit' away from our foreigner's records (an official 'forfeit' is like the mark of death for a foreign tennis player in France - once you get one on your record it becomes very hard to enter into any other tournaments).
So here is Booty in the back seat on his third day away from home, 'toadily' observing the crazy proceedings. He looks on as lance-corporal toad G drowns under a myriad of road maps and telephone numbers in the front passenger seat while Willy and the accelerator pedal team up to do battle with the floorboards in a constant attempt to go faster, as he verbally battles the Frenchies on his mobile phone with all sorts of colourful explanations as to why we're running a 'ittle' late. All the while Willy's eyes are darting back and forth from the speedo to the time, doing quick mental calculations of the constantly adjusting ETD. Meanwhile, in contrast to all this frantic action, Booty looks beside him to see Juan the super-cool Samoan immersed in his head-phonic music, completely oblivious to the stress around him, or perhaps oblivious even to the very existence of such a concept as 'stress'.
Four hours later I spin the car into an Ace Ventura style parking manoeuvre upon arrival at the club. The four of us burst out of the car in an explosion of tennis bags, shoes and Juan's headset which I throw in toadly disgust. We bustle into the clubhouse brimming with smiles and all the frenchly-accepted social niceties in an effort to win over anyone at all (no, we're not nice people, its just that we'd hoped to sleep in the clubhouse tonight so we'd better give the impression of being 'club-house worthy foreigners').
Game time, the court awaits. The mental exhaustion of the Paris-Toulouse road race subsides as the relief of arrival washes over me, leaving me to enjoy a relatively blissful state of relaxation. I take care of the club pro 6/0 6/1 in an embarrassingly modest time-frame (who is that guy teaching??). While Juan was in a battle on the court next door, Booty and his super positive attitude pounce on the opportunity for a practice session. He struts down to the court with more equipment than I've ever read about and asks if I'd like to hit with him so that he can feel out this 'clay stuff' they have over here in Europe. I welcome his positive attitude but tell him that I'll have to first buy my opponent a drink (Rule 1A of the 'toad hand book' is to respect the French tradition of buying your opponent a drink after beating him. Rule 1B is to smile until it hurts during that drink, pay more compliments than you can think of to anyone within earshot and tell no less than five thousand jokes -- when you have just spent your last 2 euros on that drink, it becomes the most important investment of your life because that time spent mingling with the French will most likely land you a place to stay for the night along with a free meal. What most people don't realize about the French is that on the outside they play it tough and cold, but if you can get in past that protective layer, they are the nicest people on earth. I could write a book on niceties 'done unto me' by the French).
Ok, here we are twenty minutes later. After precise execution of guidelines set out in rules 1A and 1B, I have successfully landed sleeping quarters for us tonight in the clubhouse as well as an invitation to eat with the club president (who was presently on the way home to round up a selection of pillows, blankets and mattresses for our sleeping comfort). So I make my way down to practice with Booty who is already sweating profusely after the most professional pre-practice warm-up I've ever read about. As I walk back onto the court I am distracted by the now not-so-cool Juan who is showing the spectators how far over the fence he can throw his racket (this one landed further away than the first racket he threw over - roughly next to where he'll be sleeping tonight on the grass if he does it again). In my distraction I nearly trip over Booty's super medicine ball before strangling myself on his blue elastic band dangling from the over-head bar of the gate entry to the court. I explain to Juan in not so subtle terms where his histrionics will see him sleeping tonight. He calms himself down back to 'back-seat Juan' temperament so I walk over up the opposite end of Booty and hit him the first ball of our association.
Now, as mentioned, I can be a real prick and I was in the mood to demonstrate it. Boot had never really played on clay except for the one tournament he played in Dieppe, so I figured id put his 6'3 frame (and the dangerously high centre of gravity that goes with it) to the test. I ran him left, right, forward and back. There were drop shots, lobs and more wrong-footings than one should legally be allowed to get away with. Ever seen a giraffe on roller skates? Neither have I, but I now have a pretty good idea of what it would look like. We then played points. After about fifteen minutes of that, during one of the change of ends, I looked up at this young, newly-turned 22 year old guy and was surprised to see what I thought were tears. I stopped him. I did see tears. And right there and then, thousands of miles from home, after only a few days in this new world of frogs, toads and unthinkable court surfaces, Eric Butorac realized just how far away from his dreams he stood. And so he let it all out. He confided in this impatient prick of guy (me) amidst his tears and confusions. He told me that he never would have dreamed of how hard this pursuit of tennis excellence would be and that the smartest thing he could think of to do would be to bury his dreams so that he could return home ASAP to take up a university coaching position or work in Big Cat's (his dad) tennis club in Rochester Minnesota.
Right then and there, the Boot won me over. He had me at 'I give up.' Because ironically, in breaking down as the result of what seemed to be the adoption of a defeatist attitude, he showed me not only how much heart he had, but how willing he was to be objective with himself regarding where he was in relation to where he wanted to go. So I dropped my 'prickly' persona and we sat down and talked about it all for quite some time. I explained how worthwhile it would be for him to stick it out a while longer if his heart wanted tennis success so badly that he was willing to break down into tears in the presence of a complete stranger, at the mere thought of his dreams being unattainable.
And stick it out is exactly what Booty decided to do. And that sticking it out has seen him come a long way since. Stay tuned for 'Part Two The Booty Professionalism' as well as 'Introducing Willy and that 'Roger' guy.'
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