Since my visit to Philadelphia, I worked for a week in Lexington before coming here to northwest Missouri for my last week of work until New York City. There wasn't much to report from Lexington - long days and nights, some annoying people, and a boss who acted unprofessionally. In other words, a normal week on the road. There will be much more to say once I finally retire.
In the meantime, we've been here in St Joseph, less than an hour north of Kansas City, for a women's $10,000 tournament. This is the entry level of professional tennis; many of the women here do not even have rankings yet. As a result, the level of play has been quite uneven at times, and startlingly competitive at others. In general, there is a wide gap between the skills of the top twenty players and the rest of the top 100. From about ranking 200 through 400, just about any player can beat any other on a given day. Once you get below that - and some players here are ranked around 1000 - the level of play once again drops off. There have been several matches here where the loser did not manage to win more than two games in the match. Then again, two equally inconsistent players could meet on the court and take you for a three-hour ride.
After receiving this assignment several months ago, I heard a few horror stories about the weather. I remember how parts of the Midwest can be in the middle of the summer, so I expected the worst. But we have been fortunate to have mostly overcast days (and a little rain) all week. Friday will finally be the clear and sunny scorcher we have been expecting all week. There was rain all day on Tuesday, creating a very long Wednesday, but now the end of the week is here, and we are back on schedule.
I have worked in a wide variety of tennis facilities in the eight years I have been on the road. This tournament is being played at a park with tennis courts and a track and football field, located alongside a fairly busy residential street. Three of the courts we have played on border the sidewalk and the road pretty closely. In the mornings, the sidewalk is the best place to watch matches and avoid the sun. There is a small building with restrooms and air conditioning. The accommodations are not elegant, but for an entry-level tournament, we have just about everything we need. Well, and we have one thing we don't need.
In all the years and all the cities and states I have visited, I have never encountered as many pigs as I have in St Joseph. Male pigs. Apparently, it is considered the height of class in this city to slow your pickup as you drive by the park and whistle, hoot, cat-call, or blow your horn at the women. It is true that these women are dressed unlike anyone that these pigs will see in their daily lives of work, Wal-Mart, and home. But that certainly does not excuse the behavior.
In the last three days, I have watched countless cars drive down the street - which in the afternoons is directly in front of me - and slow down once the pig drivers realize that lightly-dressed women are playing tennis on the courts. Most pigs slow down for the first bank of courts, speed up until the next bank of courts, slow down again, and so on. A few pigs have nearly caused wrecks, either by slowing down unexpectedly to ogle, or by nearly rear-ending the driver in front because they were not paying attention. At least ten have made some sort of inappropriate noise to signal - well, to signal what, I am not exactly sure.
Is this some weird mating ritual in northwest Missouri to which most of the rest of the country has not been exposed? I've seen men all over this country notice the female tennis players with whom I work, but I have never seen the women treated this way as they have been in St Joseph. Which of these women is going to say to herself, "Wow, he slowed down and whistled out the window, and then drove away quickly. I must be looking good today. And that man - so brave. That's the man for me"? These players know how they are dressed, and they know when they look good. But they did not invite rude behavior, and it offended me to have to see it this week.
Being a gentleman, it has been hard to wrap my mind around the goals of the pig. The one who whistled and then drove off quickly - what is he hoping to accomplish? If she thinks he is a pig, as she should, then driving away quickly might be smart. If he is trying to impress her, how would she know who he is? Is she to stop playing tennis and chase him down the street? The men who yelled, "Yeah, baby," and the like - is this the rural Missouri idea of how to woo a woman, or, more importantly, to treat a woman with respect? What motivates these pigs?
After a few days of witnessing pigs in the wild, and thinking about their behavior, I can only think of one explanation. Pigs aren't concerned with impressing women; they're trying to impress each other. They know they do not stand a chance with any of the women on our courts. So to earn standing with their fellow pigs, they try to demean the women that they cannot have. It is the gayest thing they can do without touching each other. If they were all on an elementary playground, the pigs would be trying to push the women down - that's about how mature this behavior is.
In this work environment, it is not my place to say anything to the pigs. (It is complicated to explain.) But I have apologized to the women when it has tread too closely to our tennis. In my experience, I feel that it has to be something about this place, St Joseph, that all these pigs have in common. I have never seen such disrespect for women anywhere else I have worked. And it bothered me enough to write about it. When women, and even other men, see this behavior, they should object to it. These pigs are close kin to the monsters that abuse and beat women. And often this puerile porcine behavior is how it starts.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Shine a light through the eyes of the ones left behind
Before heading to World TeamTennis in Wilmington, Delaware last Tuesday night, I decided to take my free day and spend it in the city of Philadelphia, where my mother is from and where I had spent so much of my youth. I have only been back there once since my grandparents died in 1989. Many of my memories had solidified, while others had become embellished through the years in my mind. In all, I was not sure what to expect.
From Albany, I drove through northern New Jersey and approached south Philadelphia from I-95. The skyline is different and taller, certainly; but much of the vague details, the set dressing of the city looked remarkably the same. And the first thing I tried to find was a bathroom, since the only place most Philadelphians can use the facilities is at home. My search was unsuccessful, so I parked at 12th and Washington for the first stop of the day - cheesesteak.
I can remember the biggest local debate among Philadelphians related to cheesesteak - specifically, Geno's or Pat's. Both are located roughly at the intersection of 9th Street and Passyunk Avenue, alongside the Capitolo Park. Years ago, the basic difference between the two restaurants was that one used real cheese on the steaks and one used Cheese Whiz. (I haven't been able to sort out which was which.) As a result of this and other subtle differences, my mother is for Pat's, and her elder sister, Aunt Lucille, is for Geno's.
I checked with both of them before I made my decision.
Aunt Lucille swayed me - she was the older sister, and lived in Philadelphia for more than fifty years.
Geno's and Pat's are both the kinds of restaurant with lots of locals as well as tourists. It helps to watch the habits of the locals so that you know how to order. While I was reading the menu board and listening to some construction workers order, I saw it:
For a rare moment in my life, I was stymied. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. But before I knew it, my turn was up, so I ordered and paid (cash only), went to the next window and ordered fries and a soda (cash only), and found a seat. How did I not know about this sign, this place?
I hadn't even had time to figure all this out before the next surprise. The Geno's cheesesteak - soft bread, steak, dice onions, provolone cheese - tasted like nothing. It did not taste bad. It just had no flavor at all. And I don't think this was one of those memories from my childhood that I had embellished. I remember the cheesesteaks being good, and I have lamented the lack of quality cheesesteaks in other parts of the country. (Excluding, of course, Texadelphia.) But this was a bad cheesesteak. Do you hear me, Joe Vento? A bad cheesesteak.
[Later, when I got back to the hotel, I looked up some information on the sign and the owner. Fox News set up Joe Vento and gave him a forum to "vent" about Barack Obama's comments on languages, and he didn't fail to demonstrate his ignorance.
If you had the stomach to watch the whole thing, you might agree with me that Joe Vento could stand to learn English, as well.
Any politically astute viewer who saw all of Obama's comments in context would know that Obama is not advocating for all American children to learn Spanish. But someone like Joe Vento who is ignorant - either by upbringing or by choice - wouldn't know the difference.
Do not be afraid of who you are going to get? It can't get worse that Bush, right? Right?
Bonus: This photo was on the fence of the Little League field at Capitolo Park near Geno's and Pat's.]
After Geno's, I drove down to mom's old neighborhood - 12th and Daly Street, near Jackson Street. I parked by my grandparents' church, on whose fronts steps I vomited as a kid. (Ah, memories.) Grandmom and Grandpop's house is now peach, but the railing and the front stoop were the same. The butcher across the street is now a salon, but the Mauro grocery store is still there, so I went inside.
I don't know what I was expecting to find inside the grocery; maybe I just wanted to see if it still felt so small and familiar. And in most ways, it did. Carol was behind the front counter, and Joe was behind the back. But before I could say anything or notice much more, I saw the ATM machine, and it had money in the dispenser. No one else was in the store. And just then, Carol came around the counter and asked if she could help me. I told her that I had come in for another reason (to buy some Tastykakes), but that I noticed the cash. So she called to Joe to get her an envelope and to see if he could remember who had been in the store last. And then she wheeled around on me and said, "You're Dana's son, aren't you?" (Dana is my mom.) I was stunned and said, "How did you know that?" Carol had recognized me from an old picture Mom had sent to her.
I walked a block up the street to the bakery where we used to get rolls and Sunday pizza. But the bakery is closed on Mondays, so no bread and disappointing cheesesteak were all I ate in the city.
Before heading to my hotel in suburban Philadelphia, I had one more stop - to visit my grandparents cemetery on Baltimore Pike in Yeadon. Uncle Frank sent directions to me, but somehow I sensed how to get there, too. I hadn't been back to visit them since their funeral in December 1989. I drove right to the cemetery and found them from memory, without any trouble at all.
I sat with them for awhile, and then gave them a kiss and a pat for me and for Mom before heading to Glen Mills.
From Albany, I drove through northern New Jersey and approached south Philadelphia from I-95. The skyline is different and taller, certainly; but much of the vague details, the set dressing of the city looked remarkably the same. And the first thing I tried to find was a bathroom, since the only place most Philadelphians can use the facilities is at home. My search was unsuccessful, so I parked at 12th and Washington for the first stop of the day - cheesesteak.
I can remember the biggest local debate among Philadelphians related to cheesesteak - specifically, Geno's or Pat's. Both are located roughly at the intersection of 9th Street and Passyunk Avenue, alongside the Capitolo Park. Years ago, the basic difference between the two restaurants was that one used real cheese on the steaks and one used Cheese Whiz. (I haven't been able to sort out which was which.) As a result of this and other subtle differences, my mother is for Pat's, and her elder sister, Aunt Lucille, is for Geno's.
I checked with both of them before I made my decision.
Aunt Lucille swayed me - she was the older sister, and lived in Philadelphia for more than fifty years.
Geno's and Pat's are both the kinds of restaurant with lots of locals as well as tourists. It helps to watch the habits of the locals so that you know how to order. While I was reading the menu board and listening to some construction workers order, I saw it:
For a rare moment in my life, I was stymied. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. But before I knew it, my turn was up, so I ordered and paid (cash only), went to the next window and ordered fries and a soda (cash only), and found a seat. How did I not know about this sign, this place?
I hadn't even had time to figure all this out before the next surprise. The Geno's cheesesteak - soft bread, steak, dice onions, provolone cheese - tasted like nothing. It did not taste bad. It just had no flavor at all. And I don't think this was one of those memories from my childhood that I had embellished. I remember the cheesesteaks being good, and I have lamented the lack of quality cheesesteaks in other parts of the country. (Excluding, of course, Texadelphia.) But this was a bad cheesesteak. Do you hear me, Joe Vento? A bad cheesesteak.
[Later, when I got back to the hotel, I looked up some information on the sign and the owner. Fox News set up Joe Vento and gave him a forum to "vent" about Barack Obama's comments on languages, and he didn't fail to demonstrate his ignorance.
If you had the stomach to watch the whole thing, you might agree with me that Joe Vento could stand to learn English, as well.
Any politically astute viewer who saw all of Obama's comments in context would know that Obama is not advocating for all American children to learn Spanish. But someone like Joe Vento who is ignorant - either by upbringing or by choice - wouldn't know the difference.
Vento: This guy [Obama], with this — he scares me. I'm telling all the people out there, please, please, vote these people out of office. And if they can't tell you that English will be the official language before the election, vote them all out, and do not be afraid of who you're going to get. It is not going to be worse than what we already have. We have got to speak. [Emphasis added]
Do not be afraid of who you are going to get? It can't get worse that Bush, right? Right?
Bonus: This photo was on the fence of the Little League field at Capitolo Park near Geno's and Pat's.]
After Geno's, I drove down to mom's old neighborhood - 12th and Daly Street, near Jackson Street. I parked by my grandparents' church, on whose fronts steps I vomited as a kid. (Ah, memories.) Grandmom and Grandpop's house is now peach, but the railing and the front stoop were the same. The butcher across the street is now a salon, but the Mauro grocery store is still there, so I went inside.
I don't know what I was expecting to find inside the grocery; maybe I just wanted to see if it still felt so small and familiar. And in most ways, it did. Carol was behind the front counter, and Joe was behind the back. But before I could say anything or notice much more, I saw the ATM machine, and it had money in the dispenser. No one else was in the store. And just then, Carol came around the counter and asked if she could help me. I told her that I had come in for another reason (to buy some Tastykakes), but that I noticed the cash. So she called to Joe to get her an envelope and to see if he could remember who had been in the store last. And then she wheeled around on me and said, "You're Dana's son, aren't you?" (Dana is my mom.) I was stunned and said, "How did you know that?" Carol had recognized me from an old picture Mom had sent to her.
I walked a block up the street to the bakery where we used to get rolls and Sunday pizza. But the bakery is closed on Mondays, so no bread and disappointing cheesesteak were all I ate in the city.
Before heading to my hotel in suburban Philadelphia, I had one more stop - to visit my grandparents cemetery on Baltimore Pike in Yeadon. Uncle Frank sent directions to me, but somehow I sensed how to get there, too. I hadn't been back to visit them since their funeral in December 1989. I drove right to the cemetery and found them from memory, without any trouble at all.
I sat with them for awhile, and then gave them a kiss and a pat for me and for Mom before heading to Glen Mills.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
For the Pennsylvania we never found
I spent last week at a women's tennis event in Allentown. For all the time I spent in Pennsylvania as a child, I had never been there. I went there from Raleigh, traveling through the traffic bottleneck approaching Washington, and then up around Baltimore and into south-central Pennsylvania, approaching Allentown from the west and passing through some small parts of Amish country. It was a calm, quiet, and pretty drive - much nicer than the natural utilitarianism I would experience in New Jersey at the end of the week.
When I arrive at the hotel late Saturday night, there was a Jewish wedding party, a band in the bar, and a youth softball tournament that had quite literally overrun the hotel. Consequently, the front desk could not find my room, and I had to put down my own credit card for the night. As I waited, the desk clerk was on the phone with our chief umpire, telling him that there had been an error in reservations, that the hotel was overbooked, and that their company policy for overbooking was that whoever arrived first got the remaining rooms. Thankfully, I got a room, albeit a smoking one.
While I never found out who owned the hotel, it was the most patriotic place I have ever stayed. Seals with eagles adorned doors, carpets, and directional signs. The restaurant was called "America". The walls were adorned with all sorts of patriotic photographic art. Even the cigar lounge was prominently sponsored by Samuel Adams beer. (Although, I admit some trepidation in including this last fact, given that I do not know the provenance of that line of beers. I just know from the advertising that it seems colonial and patriotic.) And each morning at 8 a.m., they salute America with a flag raising. Employees and guests gather at the flag poles and honor hotel guests' family and friends who have served in the armed forces. The flag is raised to the National Anthem, followed by the much-overplayed "God Bless the U.S.A." by - you guessed it - Lee Greenwood. [Right next door to the hotel was the Liber-tee mini-golf. I went over there a few times for ice cream, as well as to play a round of golf by myself one cool night.]
The facility for tennis was decent, the staff was good, and the week was fairly normal. We had a few rain delays, one that moved our matches to the adjoining indoor courts. Imagine, if you will, Noah's Ark. Now, turn it upside down and place it over four tennis courts. That is what the indoor facility looked like. It was constructed of rich, dark wood planks around four inches wide, and it was built quite securely. The arc of the roof gently curved back in the opposite direction before reaching a point at the top. While the entire place smelled like your grandmother's damp attic, it did not leak a drop of water.
On Friday evening after work, I stopped by the supervisor's desk to chat before returning to the hotel. The order of play for the next day was on the table - two singles semifinals and the doubles final. As I looked at it, I said to her, "Well, I bet I know which match I am doing tomorrow." I had already had one of the singles semifinalists that day in her quarterfinal match, and back-to-back matches for chair umpires are avoided. And I've never done a final, so...
"You are doing the doubles final," she said. I told her that I was pretty certain this would be my first professional final. "Don't you think it's about time, then?" she said.
I wound up doing the opposite singles semifinal first, and then the doubles final third the next day. Other than a few extra duties for the final, it was mostly like any other match. I hadn't felt nerves on court in a long time, so it was an interesting feeling. But once we all got a few games under our belts, it was just like any other day at the office. And the match went pretty smoothly.
One note from the singles semifinal. The player to my left came to the next for an overhead smash. She succeeded in putting the ball into play against her opponent, but I heard something hit the ground as I watched the ball speed to the other side. The opponent got her racquet on the ball, but it sailed far outside. That's when I noticed the sound again, and saw the first player's racquet bouncing in her opponent's court. Apparently during the smash, the racquet slipped from her hand, bounced on her side of the court and then over the net. After the ball went out, the first player said to me, "Do I still win the point?" "No," I replied, to laughter from the player and the crowd.
And on other note - in another match, a tall player came racing into the net to play a short ball from her opponent. She got the return over, but her foot touched the base of the net in the process, so I called "touch". She looked at me and said, "Touch? What touch? Who touch?" So I told her that her foot had touched the net. As she walked back to the baseline, she shrugged and said, "Eh, my big feet."
Sunday morning I left for Albany for World TeamTennis, a pleasant drive of a couple hundred miles. Since I wasn't in a hurry, I drove mostly 55 mph on this trip. When I arrived, I discovered my gas mileage was 62.5 mpg for the trip. That's when I decided that I needed a bumper sticker reading, "I Drive This Way To Save Money". It amazed me at all the SUVs racing past me, sometimes more than 20 mph faster than me. Before you complain about the high price of gas, how about adjusting your driving habits?
I've also been playing the license plate game with some friends - the hard version, where you have to find all 50 state plates in alphabetical order. I have been stuck on Colorado for a couple of months now, which annoyed me since I was going to be up in New England these two weeks to get Connecticut and Delaware. And despite seeing Washington, California, Wyoming, Florida (lots of Florida), North Carolina, Texas, Alabama, Quebec, New Brunswick, and even Mexico (D.F.), I still haven't seen Colorado. I'll have more to say about this in a future entry about bumper-sticker politics.
I was in Albany for World TeamTennis, a unique format of professional tennis that uses a box umpire in place of a chair umpire. In other words, you do the same job, but just standing the entire time on a box at the net. WTT has different formats, scoring systems, procedures, verbiage, and mechanics. And while I have been a line umpire at WTT events before - a job exactly the same as line umpiring on the pro circuit - I had never been a box umpire before.
I studied the rules carefully, but some of them are arcane and hard to get unless you see them in action. I don't get the cable channel that shows WTT, so I asked a lot of questions in the last couple of weeks. I knew the basics, but I did not know what the actual product looked like, so I was winging it. Players can tell by the little things if you know what you are doing. If you can't get simple announcements and verbiage correct, they'll mark you as a rookie and eat you alive, even if you aren't. So I tried to master the little things that would instill confidence.
WTT has noisy crowds, even during play; it has coaches and players that come from the bench to argue calls with you; it has instant replay and challenges (in some cities); it has a headset microphone and a Palm Pilot for live scoring and a wide range of line umpire skills, varying from city to city. In essence, it is a challenge even for experience officials. And it was one of the few things left on my list of things I hadn't yet done in tennis.
The night seems like a blur, even though I was sweating, my legs hurt, and I was on the box for three hours, as the match went into overtime. But overall I survived it, and I even enjoyed it a little bit. I'll be more prepared for tonight's match at the DuPont Country Club in Wilmington, and then I will be done with WTT for the far forseeable future. (In case you are wondering, I am next off to see family in the Washington area and then have a vacation with Dave, and then I go to Lexington for a week and St. Joseph, MO (north of Kansas City) for a week.)
When I arrive at the hotel late Saturday night, there was a Jewish wedding party, a band in the bar, and a youth softball tournament that had quite literally overrun the hotel. Consequently, the front desk could not find my room, and I had to put down my own credit card for the night. As I waited, the desk clerk was on the phone with our chief umpire, telling him that there had been an error in reservations, that the hotel was overbooked, and that their company policy for overbooking was that whoever arrived first got the remaining rooms. Thankfully, I got a room, albeit a smoking one.
While I never found out who owned the hotel, it was the most patriotic place I have ever stayed. Seals with eagles adorned doors, carpets, and directional signs. The restaurant was called "America". The walls were adorned with all sorts of patriotic photographic art. Even the cigar lounge was prominently sponsored by Samuel Adams beer. (Although, I admit some trepidation in including this last fact, given that I do not know the provenance of that line of beers. I just know from the advertising that it seems colonial and patriotic.) And each morning at 8 a.m., they salute America with a flag raising. Employees and guests gather at the flag poles and honor hotel guests' family and friends who have served in the armed forces. The flag is raised to the National Anthem, followed by the much-overplayed "God Bless the U.S.A." by - you guessed it - Lee Greenwood. [Right next door to the hotel was the Liber-tee mini-golf. I went over there a few times for ice cream, as well as to play a round of golf by myself one cool night.]
The facility for tennis was decent, the staff was good, and the week was fairly normal. We had a few rain delays, one that moved our matches to the adjoining indoor courts. Imagine, if you will, Noah's Ark. Now, turn it upside down and place it over four tennis courts. That is what the indoor facility looked like. It was constructed of rich, dark wood planks around four inches wide, and it was built quite securely. The arc of the roof gently curved back in the opposite direction before reaching a point at the top. While the entire place smelled like your grandmother's damp attic, it did not leak a drop of water.
On Friday evening after work, I stopped by the supervisor's desk to chat before returning to the hotel. The order of play for the next day was on the table - two singles semifinals and the doubles final. As I looked at it, I said to her, "Well, I bet I know which match I am doing tomorrow." I had already had one of the singles semifinalists that day in her quarterfinal match, and back-to-back matches for chair umpires are avoided. And I've never done a final, so...
"You are doing the doubles final," she said. I told her that I was pretty certain this would be my first professional final. "Don't you think it's about time, then?" she said.
I wound up doing the opposite singles semifinal first, and then the doubles final third the next day. Other than a few extra duties for the final, it was mostly like any other match. I hadn't felt nerves on court in a long time, so it was an interesting feeling. But once we all got a few games under our belts, it was just like any other day at the office. And the match went pretty smoothly.
One note from the singles semifinal. The player to my left came to the next for an overhead smash. She succeeded in putting the ball into play against her opponent, but I heard something hit the ground as I watched the ball speed to the other side. The opponent got her racquet on the ball, but it sailed far outside. That's when I noticed the sound again, and saw the first player's racquet bouncing in her opponent's court. Apparently during the smash, the racquet slipped from her hand, bounced on her side of the court and then over the net. After the ball went out, the first player said to me, "Do I still win the point?" "No," I replied, to laughter from the player and the crowd.
And on other note - in another match, a tall player came racing into the net to play a short ball from her opponent. She got the return over, but her foot touched the base of the net in the process, so I called "touch". She looked at me and said, "Touch? What touch? Who touch?" So I told her that her foot had touched the net. As she walked back to the baseline, she shrugged and said, "Eh, my big feet."
Sunday morning I left for Albany for World TeamTennis, a pleasant drive of a couple hundred miles. Since I wasn't in a hurry, I drove mostly 55 mph on this trip. When I arrived, I discovered my gas mileage was 62.5 mpg for the trip. That's when I decided that I needed a bumper sticker reading, "I Drive This Way To Save Money". It amazed me at all the SUVs racing past me, sometimes more than 20 mph faster than me. Before you complain about the high price of gas, how about adjusting your driving habits?
I've also been playing the license plate game with some friends - the hard version, where you have to find all 50 state plates in alphabetical order. I have been stuck on Colorado for a couple of months now, which annoyed me since I was going to be up in New England these two weeks to get Connecticut and Delaware. And despite seeing Washington, California, Wyoming, Florida (lots of Florida), North Carolina, Texas, Alabama, Quebec, New Brunswick, and even Mexico (D.F.), I still haven't seen Colorado. I'll have more to say about this in a future entry about bumper-sticker politics.
I was in Albany for World TeamTennis, a unique format of professional tennis that uses a box umpire in place of a chair umpire. In other words, you do the same job, but just standing the entire time on a box at the net. WTT has different formats, scoring systems, procedures, verbiage, and mechanics. And while I have been a line umpire at WTT events before - a job exactly the same as line umpiring on the pro circuit - I had never been a box umpire before.
I studied the rules carefully, but some of them are arcane and hard to get unless you see them in action. I don't get the cable channel that shows WTT, so I asked a lot of questions in the last couple of weeks. I knew the basics, but I did not know what the actual product looked like, so I was winging it. Players can tell by the little things if you know what you are doing. If you can't get simple announcements and verbiage correct, they'll mark you as a rookie and eat you alive, even if you aren't. So I tried to master the little things that would instill confidence.
WTT has noisy crowds, even during play; it has coaches and players that come from the bench to argue calls with you; it has instant replay and challenges (in some cities); it has a headset microphone and a Palm Pilot for live scoring and a wide range of line umpire skills, varying from city to city. In essence, it is a challenge even for experience officials. And it was one of the few things left on my list of things I hadn't yet done in tennis.
The night seems like a blur, even though I was sweating, my legs hurt, and I was on the box for three hours, as the match went into overtime. But overall I survived it, and I even enjoyed it a little bit. I'll be more prepared for tonight's match at the DuPont Country Club in Wilmington, and then I will be done with WTT for the far forseeable future. (In case you are wondering, I am next off to see family in the Washington area and then have a vacation with Dave, and then I go to Lexington for a week and St. Joseph, MO (north of Kansas City) for a week.)
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