Humble Booty Beginnings - Part One Thursday, February 14, 2008
Part 1 - Humble Booty Beginnings:
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.'
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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