Fergus Murphy! And other tales from my day of tennis.

Camille and I have been making the trek out to the desert every March for several years now for a day of tennis.  Watching tennis, that is.  I haven't played tennis since college and even then it was mostly just as an excuse to get smoothies afterwards (am I right, Rac?)  We get to watch several matches pretty close to the players and drink frozen lemonade.  And now I have just realized that I must have a very deep-seeded link between tennis and slushy beverages.  This is clearly not a bad thing.

A few highlights include:

1.)  Guess what is in this cup.  Go ahead.  Cocoa?  Coffee (don't be ridiculous)?  Some other hot beverage that needs to be sipped gently through a wee hole?  Nope.  It's rootbeer.  They ran out of soda lids.  This, after waiting in the drive-thru for 20 minutes.  They handed this to me with a straw and no explanation until we asked.  It was fine until the ice got in the way.  But it made me giggle the entire time.  And as an aside - here's something interesting about me that you may not know - I hate guessing.  When someone says, "Guess," I always say, in a very stubborn tone, "I don't guess."  I find that this is the only way to combat the, "No, come on!  Just guess!"  If it doesn't work I usually throw something out that is ludicrously wrong.  Like if you say, "Guess how many polar bears I have in my Beanie Baby collection,"  I was say "910," and then fold my arms and harumph.  Because I'm zero fun.  Don't ever invite me to your party.

2.)  The chair ump for the last match we watched (The Bryan Twins v. Some Kid from Canada and Some Cute Guy from Spain.) was named Fergus Murphy.  FERGUS MURPHY!!  Oh, please let  me have a son so I can name him Fergus Murphy (insert Wealthy Benefactor's last name here).  Not only was he beautifully named but he had the funniest moment of the entire day.  At the end of a break the players got up and into position and were ready to play but there was a couple right in the middle of the stand making some ruckus.  Dancing or something.  So Fergus Murphy says, "Ladies and gentleman, please take your seats."  Still, with the ruckus.  "Please, stop moving around so the players can begin."  Still, ruckus.  "Will the lady and gentleman standing directly across from me please stop moving around and sit down."  STILL!  "Hellooooo!  We can all see yoooouuuu!"  Fergus Murphy is my hero.

3.)  Unless your in the big stadium or watching a match with some no-names, seating is decided by death matches under the bleachers.  We always had great seats because after four years we have learned to go to the tail end of the smaller matches preceding the bigger ones.  But some people haven't figured out this trick yet.  People who had been waiting under the bleachers for hours would finally get seats and tell stories of blood and guts and name calling.  An argument between two senior citizens very nearly came to fisticuffs.  It was thrilling!

4.)  Because of the trauma of getting in and all that frozen lemonade, there is a real bond that you share with your neighbors.  We sat next to Our New Best Friends Kristen and Austin for 2 entire matches.  Austin cracked jokes and Kristen pointed out cute players.  Ideal seat companions.

5.)  Is that Paula Deen in a woven bird jacket?!  I wish.

Not a Tennis Anecdote

I have learned that unless they are really into it people don't care all too much about the awesome time you had at the tennis tournament. I'm guessing you're in that boat. So I will just tell you a funny story from it.

The tournament is out in the desert, so even though it was a glorious 80 degrees it still feels like you're baking in an Easy Bake Oven because the sun is so much brighter and sunnier out there. So everyone dresses in summer clothes (Fact: an alarming amount of women come to this tournament dressed in tennis attire, like they're ready to play if called upon.) But then around 4 pm the sun starts to head toward the mountains and the wind starts to pick up. A lot. Oh, does the wind pick up. And then in about 30 minutes time the temperature plummets and you're freezing.

We were watching Nadal play when this happened (And I know that you don't care the slightest about this but he is awesome. Amen.) and we were sitting up in the top of the stadium being buffeted by the winds and there were these two fellas sitting a few rows ahead. Mid-twenty hipster types. They kept adding layers of clothes - long sleeve shirts and hoodies and thick socks. And then suddenly one of the guys REMOVED HIS SHORTS - so he's just standing there in his pantaloons - and pulled on a pair of skinny jeans. But before he could zip up he took about a minute to stuff his boxers into his pants. There was a lot of hopping and shimming about. They were very loosey-goosey drawers and very skinny jeans - which seemed a bit of a contradiction but which made for a pretty good show. Well worth the price of admission.

This example has caused me to think. There were MANY shirtless men at this tournament. And almost all of them really should have kept those shirts on. When the guy took his shorts off it was more funny than shocking because it seemed like all day long there were men removing their clothes. But what would have happened if a woman had taken her shorts off and stood there in her underwear before putting on a pair of pants. She would have first been flashed up on the big screen and gotten a load of cat calls and then second would have been escorted off the premises. Why is it that we expect modesty of women (which I agree with, by the way) but not of men? And is this an enormous double-standard or just one of many examples that boys are weird and do unacceptable things in public (i.e. peeing on the side of the freeway) simply because they can?

And suddenly I got all feministy and serious. I blame daylight savings.

I've got a date with Tyra tonight

1.) America's Next Top Model starts tonight. I'm giddy with excitement. I predict that Tyra will have finally ditched those funny accents she uses and come up with her own language that the would-be contestants will have to decipher if they want to make the final 13.

2.) I've been sewing today and listening to Lyle Lovett's "Step Inside this House" and Bruce Springsteen's "The Seeger Sessions", which I like to call Bruce's Barn Raisin' Hootenanny. Both albums make me want to pack my belongings in a knapsack - hobo style - and roam the country side.

3.) After several days of the stomach flu (yep, I got it) I am feeling a little less barfy. Rejoice! And even a little hungry. No surprise as I have been subsisting on saltines and ginger ale for 3 days. I'm praying for a full recovering by Friday because on Saturday Camille, Allie and I are making the annual trek out to Indian Wells for the tennis tournament. As of now I can barely make a trek to my mailbox so let's all think positive okay.

Tennis anyone?

Somewhere along the road I became a tennis fan. I don't know how this happened. But one day I found myself watching a Wimbledon match and I was hooked. I think it helps when you know how it's scored. In tennis, love is not a good thing.

And somehow Camille and Casey because equally obsessed so we headed out to Indian Wells this weekend for a tennis tournament. Where, among other things, we got to see Roger Federer play. Which was awesome. I mean, really, seriously awesome. We watched a bunch of other matches, including one in a small side court where we got to sit in the front row which put us up close and personal for a tantrum by a French player (we were afraid he was going to drop kick the ball boy into the next court).

It was a pretty fantastic day. The sun is approximately 3000 miles closer to Indian Wells as it is to any other spot on the earth so it was kind of warm and INCREDIBLY BRIGHT. It wasn't as hot as it was two years ago when we were last there (110 degrees...in March) but it was still warm enough to suck down a frozen lemonade and wish for another as you're doing it.

When you're blinded by the sun and wishing you had a fancy phone that connects to the internet so you can look up what heat stroke feels like, you get pretty creative with your headgear.

Behold:

The shirt-as-a-hat

the hat-as-a-ticket-holder

the if-it-worked-for-Pancho-Villa-it-can-work-for-me hat

There were also several large, floppy hats, hats with sparkles, and one chair umpire who, from a distance, appeared to have a shaggy hat on but in reality was sporting a mullet.

And, as a special bonus, if you watch tennis at all you know who Bud Collins is. And you know he's famous for his flashy pants. The man did not disappoint.