“10s Whenever” Newsletter Vol. 154

Written by: Staff on 25th March 2014

"10s Whenever" Newsletter Vol. 154 |

Photo by Pancho

First Patrick.

Now Jose. “When a high percentage of the coaches want it more than the players,” he said, “we have a problem.”

http://www.latimes.com/sports/tennis/la-sp-indian-wells-dwyre-20140308,0,842864.column?page=2#ixzz2vW7U31ep

Let’s discuss this hunger issue.

OED definition:

Hunger: (noun) need to eat, starvation, craving

We know the salaries of these USTA coaches, and we know how insulated they are in their jobs. We know there is virtually zero accountability since we haven’t had an American male in the second week of a major for a very long time, and we have a dearth of upcoming players at present. We know they claim we need more players playing the game in order to grow a champion, but many successful European countries (think Serbia) claim far less junior players and far more success. And we know these coaches believe the US juniors are soft, unwilling to train hard, and not hungry.

Recently, to ESPN, John McEnroe said Patrick devotes 10 days per month to USTA player development. Jose certainly works less than a 9-5 schedule at the Carson facility. Ask the USTA national coaches how often they spend 40-hour weeks on court and you’ll hear the silence.

USTA top dogs can blame the players for their lack, but at some point they will look into the mirror to see their own plump faces. They’ll stare into puffy, contented eyes to see the large salaries that allow them to set grandiose tables and wield large expense accounts for company dinners. They’ll see bulging waistlines that once helped bludgeon forehands but now barely fit into rotating chairs behind large desks. They’ll hire trainers and sparring partners, sit in dark rooms with big screens, perch on benches and make a few productive comments, and then squeeze into their Mercedes’ and rush off to a long lunch with some suit-wearing television executive.

The thing about hunger is that it applies to all creatures. It resides in exposed ribs, dried sweat, frothing mouths, and the unrelenting hunt. It lives in thousand yard stares that search the horizon for sustenance. It is an all-consuming limbic drive that infiltrates one’s thoughts from dawn to dusk, and then invades the night with its painful pangs.

I don’t see much of that stuff in White Plains these days, nor Carson’s comfortable cubicles, nor Boca’s beautiful bureaus, nor in any of those glossy USTA offices.

Frankly, those places seem to provide sufficient evidence of America’s corporate obesity epidemic far more than they project starvation.

If I was going to bitch about someone else’s lack of hunger, I’d be damn sure I was doing everything possible to secure my own food.

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