Tennis Anyone?

Yesterday I watched the finals at Wimbledon. I loved playing tennis. I loved the clay courts and the pop the ball would make when it hit my racquet. I loved bending low and getting a drop shot. I loved taking lessons with Van—the stoner tennis pro---who would always ask me “where are you running to?” I especially loved the outfits---tennis dresses are just too fabulous. Sometimes I think it’s the fashion of the sport that enticed me to play in the first place, and then once I became a bit skilled, I loved it even more.

But every blessing has its curse, so while I looked really good playing tennis from the neck down, from the neck up was a very different situation. The first problem was, my face would get really sweaty—so sweaty that I couldn’t wear sunglasses because not only would they slide around, they would fog up and I couldn’t see the ball. I got so steamy, waterproof mascara would melt off of  my drippy face. Further complicating matters, I was a face touch-er—and the red clay would combine with the sweat making me look like a native American drag queen. But the biggest glamour issue I had when I played was my big Italian hair—nothing could tame it—especially in the humidity—and especially in the humidity after I got sweaty. So picture a native American drag queen with black smudgy eyes and a ‘fro. That’s what I looked like.  It’s why my friend Steve called me Evonne Goolagong (the great Australian tennis player)--not because of my exceptional athletic prowess, but because of my profound fugliness.

My fugliest day playing tennis though came on a July morning when even my outfit failed me. Elaine (my best friend) and I were playing a match against the best team in our tennis league against their best players. The temperature that day was like a 1000 degrees (give or take a degree or 2). It was one of those summer days where they announce on the news that you should limit all physical activity outdoors because of the unhealthiness of the air quality. But the match should have been quick. On paper we should have gotten blown off the courts 0-6, 0-6 in 40 minutes—they were that much better than us--which is why we agreed to playing the first place- we could get the match over with quickly and avoid postponement. Elaine and I are practical people—this was a sound plan. But unfortunately the tennis Gods had other ideas.

The match went to 3 sets—two of which went to tie breakers. The match was 3 hours long (maybe less, but that’s what it felt like). And it was played on Court #1 so by the end we had fans watching us play. People watched me go from fugly to fuglier to Oh my God who IS that horrid creature on court 1? Is she a member? Not only did I have exceptionally large and sweaty big Italian hair, with smudged and dripping black mascara like Alice Cooper with caked red clay on my face like a native American drag queen, my short little mesh Reebok tennis dress had morphed into its own alter ego. After 3 hours of sweat and ice packs and splashes of water to cool myself down in the 1000 degree heat (give or take a degree or two) my short little mesh Reebok tennis dress, had absorbed all that moisture and now hung 4 inches below my knees. My cute stylish tennis dress had transformed into a Mormon house frock.   

We lost the match in a tie-breaker. I’d like to think that Elaine and I are well remembered that day for our exceptional tennis playing but I am not that certain. I may just be remembered for my not-so-very-country-club looks. Elaine is a different story. Elaine, looked as fresh when the match ended as she did when it began 3 hours prior. Elaine does not sweat. Elaine’s mascara does not run. She could wear cool Oakley sunglasses without them fogging up and sliding around on her face. And no matter how much she ran around, her hair stayed in a neat ponytail with a scunci (scuncis were okay—it was 1998). Elaine’s tennis dress remained pristine—with not even a wrinkle.

I clean up okay though—actually I clean up more than okay—especially when the baseline is as a Native American drag queen with Alice Cooper eyes with really big Italian hair in a Mormon house frock. When I am wearing my designer clothes and my hair is straightened and my make-up is on I am rather attractive. But I need help—it is not natural beauty. I used to enjoy that commercial that asked: Is she born with it? Or is it Maybelline? Elaine may be born with it, but I am definitely Maybelline.             

Evonne Goolagong, 1972