Archive: craig-cignarelli
Caja Magica “The Magic Box” sits in the Southeast Corner of Madrid, Spain. 3.1 million Spaniards surround the place, along with a melting pot of non-Spanish Europeans who secretly want Rafa to lose.
Before he sold the tournament to Larry Ellison, I had the opportunity to sit with owner Charlie Pasarell at Indian Wells.
The Mutua Madrid Tournament started this week and 10sballs.com has tasked me to provide daily reports.
I grew up on the hard courts of Southern California, Over time, the sun-drenched paint starts to flake, the grain turns skating-rink slick and the surface fades like an old man after three gin and tonics.
The Australian Open is over and we’re in that waiting period between Melbourne and Paris. Joints are bending and twisting all over the hardcourt and we’ve seen some serious headlines in the tennis world.
About thirteen years ago, I was sitting in Charlie Pasarell’s front row box at Indian Wells. He’d been kind enough to offer me the seats for a couple of hours because, well, that’s the kind of tournament host Charlie was. On the stadium, Roger Federer was wearing baby blue and having a rough go of it, so I had a few moments to observe the crowd.
Tennis has always been about time. Players move deeper in the court to buy time to track down deep balls. They add spin, arc and change pace to give themselves more time for positioning.
December, 2015. Most of the players are resting. A select few organize their Christmas stockings around the Grand Slam trophies sitting atop their fireplace mantles.
The courts are dark. Outside by the pool, a few well-boozed attendees flop out onto deck chairs to await the morning’s sunrise.
What if you had a dream… to come back from injury and become an athlete again, to beat the club champion, to win a national title? What type of event would propel you toward your goals?
A halo hovers over the desert, its golden glow raining down upon 250 amateur athletes whose definition of passion is evident in worn-out shoes, dirty racquet handles, and sweat-stained shirts.
Sunset comes into Malibu like a slow wave, its colors cresting and then falling down across the sky before receding back into the deep. Across the road, Pepperdine University’s lawn has positioned over 3,000 American flags – an annual memorial to the victims of 9/11.
Darkness. Several un-caffeinated bodies stagger around Malibu Racquet Club’s eight-court facility attaching banners to court fences. The club’s Corgi – her name is Lily - barks at the sound of twisting wrenches.
My grandfather’s couch was the color of desert sand. As a boy, I’d fall back into its soft, thick cushions and stare up into his big brown eyes to listen to stories of his youth.
Novak Djokovic is one hell of a tennis player. The ground game is nearly flawless, his movement and flexibility are extraordinary, penetrating his defense requires the kind of creativity one finds in the Shawshank Redemption, is volleys technique is almost as tight as his haircut, and his returns take IRS agents to climax.
« Previous Page — Next Page »
