LOVE MEANS NOTHING

With her victories at the Australian and French Opens, as well as impressive showings at Wimbledon and the U.S. Open, Jennifer Capriati has made a triumphant return to the sport of tennis. Now the #1 ranked player in the world, Capriati's problems with drugs and emotional breakdowns appear to be non-existent. At 25-years-old, she is contrary to the belief that the WTA's ruled by fashion-obsessed teen-age Misses. Believe it or not, I've played a small role in the Capriati story. But only a bit part barely worth mentioning, like a $50 extra's.

In the summer of 1987, I first picked up a racket (mainly because my father had smashed my Nash Executioner skateboard against the house's side -- Oh well, skating had sucked anyway) from an overstocked box in the garage. It was a Jack Kramer special, made only from the most mediocre-quality wood. At first, I practiced hitting balls against brick. Later, a neighborhood kid named James Beavers asked me to play a match with him at the Churchland Park courts. Sure, why not? Must've been a quick study, because I beat him in that initial pairing. Most of our subsequent matches found me coming out on top as well. Though Beavers eventually left the area, I continued challenging anyone and everyone to two-out-of-three setters. Players like this fellow with no arms (only stumps at the shoulders) named Jim. Despite his deformity, Jim had been active in soccer and football (an amazing athlete -- he would later do a jaw-dropping 71 sit-ups in a minute's time during P.E.tests). This guy was able to sustain long volleys and control his serve. Jim played the contests straight-up and took every ball on its first bounce. He sought no pity from anyone -- only victory for himself. Sometimes, Jim got the "game, set, and match." One July afternoon, I ran into an old eighth-grade chum of mine at the park. David Turley had been the fastest white kid in my gym class (I know, because I'd been Numero Dos in that department). During our catching-up chatter, we decided to become hitting partners. Turls may've had my number on the track, but he couldn't better me on the hard courts (out of 20 or so matches, I think he won only 4 or 5). Post-tennis, both of us often pedaled to the nearby 7-11 for a free (price-fixing -- a favorite topic at CJHS) Super Big Gulp. Cooling off in the shade, David and I frequently discussed trying out for Churchland High's tennis squad in the spring of '88. We figured with more practice, our games would be honed down enough by then to make the team. Then came the bad news.

The owner of the home my parents had been renting from wanted to move back into the place. Not understanding the details of the lease or anything, I was shocked by our sudden need to relocate. With most of the available houses in Portsmouth at that time being situated in bad areas, my folks began looking for digs on the other side of the Downtown Tunnel. Three weeks before the start of my 10th-grade year, they found a two-story, four-bedroom house in Virginia Beach. I'll spare you the first-semester conversations from my socially challenged lunch table. Fast forward to spring.

While on the Bayside High tennis team in '88, I was chosen to play a "Battle of the Sexes" match with the top-ranked player from the girls' squad. Being a scrub (AKA -- the #10 man, AKA -- fourth off the bench, AKA -- part-time water-fetcher) serve-and-volleyer, this would be my chance to beat a quality opponent and somewhat redeem the bad name of Bobby Riggs. Before our match, I was given a special set of handicapping rules (you know, in the interest of "fairness"). I would only be allowed one serve, have to cover the doubles court (meaning I'd have to play normally out-of-bounds balls), not be permitted to approach the net, and be forbidden to hit overhead smashes (Hell, why wasn't I handcuffed and made to wear a blindfold?). Anyhow, I raced to a 3-1 lead, on the strength of my baseline exchanges. However, Sonya stormed back with a rash of winners (most of 'em outside the singles area). Before I knew it, I found myself down 5-6, love-40, triple-humiliation point. Can't remember the sequence of shots that won me that game (and later, the match), but I felt as if I'd conquered Billie Jean King, Bjorn Borg, and Ivan Lendl all at once. Had I lost, I would've been the only player on the boys' team to fall to an opposing girl and reminded of it from that day on. But I'd won, so nobody really talked to me.

Oh...the connection? I'd beaten Bayside High School's number-one singles player Sonya Stevens, who'd lose 6-0, 6-0 to the nationally-ranked Julie Shiflet from First Colonial, who'd lose 6-0, 6-0 to the then-junior phenom Jennifer Capriati. When I meet Jen, I'll bring this to her attention. In return for the three degrees separating us, I shall only ask for 3% of Capriati's 2001 WTA earnings. Oh, how do I love thee, Jen? Let me count the 64,234 ways.