She's not like other girls

Yes, I'm talking about Indian Wells

It’s Indian Wells time, friends, and I just know that most of you are joyful and excited to see high-quality tennis in surroundings that look like they’ve been fabricated in a lab. The sun is too perfect, the sky’s blue too radiant to be real. In other words, you are betraying me.

Nature doesn’t work like that. Nature is messy and violent. And sometimes, even in this faultless place, there are winds and bee attacks to remind us that a desert will always find ways to topple us.

I came here today to burst the bubble of wholesomeness that is Indian Wells. Let’s be real, the only reason why I’m trying to tear her down is because I never figured her out. Like a jilted lover left amid blossoming romance, Indian Wells has always forsaken me.

It’s not a secret that I worship tennis players for their mental strength and their ability to withstand loneliness, but I’ve always reserved a bit more worshipping sauce (not to be mistaken for Worcestershire sauce) for players who triumphed at Indian Wells. Too cruel, too complicated are the conditions in “tennis paradise” to not to.

tennis paradise - for the weird ones

Let me go all tennis nerd on you for a minute and break down the conditions at Indian Wells. And why I always thought the nickname “tennis paradise” was sarcastic. For all the years I’ve played there, the unique mixture of dry air, high temperatures, gritty courts and small Penn tennis balls did not become me. There were too many opposites! It wasn’t supposed to work!

The dry air and the hot temperature make the ball fly like a bullet. It barely touches your racquet and already it is gone, gone, gone. Gone with the wind, barely controllable. What in practice gave me a nice depth, every groundstroke landing just in front of the baseline, would change the moment the tension of a match entered my body and the end result was that my shots went long. Too long. Which in turn made me decelerate my racquet head, thinking that gentle guidance will get me the result I wished for, but deceleration makes the ball fly more.

All of this paired with the gritty, slow courts causes a temporary disassociation from reality. The ball flies and is quick and yet you can’t seem to hit winners because once it hits the surface your shot is suddenly emergency broken down. These are two opposite pieces of information your body and mind try to process but, in my case, failed miserably every single time. One information is yelling “quick playing conditions” the other is retorting “you’re dumb, it’s slooow”.

please exit if you can’t handle

My body and my mind could never comprehend. And this is just a regular day in the desert. I didn’t even mention the crazy wind days or the nights when temperatures fall so low people start complimenting you on your New York winter jacket (no, it’s not North Face). When you see your life blowing away alongside your groundstrokes and your nerves and the last bit of sanity you were still holding onto. When you suddenly see woollen hats in the audience.

If you’ve never seen the legendary Indian Wells final between Ana Ivanovic and Vera Zvonareva where one of them straight-up hit a drop shot winner on serve because of the frenzied wind that came upon tennis paradise that day, here are some highlights: Hilarious and sad.

I’m fully aware that this newsletter sounds like a long list of excuses and if it does indeed read that way, it’s exactly what I was going for. I did want to excuse why I never played well in Indian Wells.

And yet, it can also be read as a love letter to tennis players who not only overcome conditions of that kind but thrive in them. I bow in respect and admiration. But I did want to make clear that: You’re the weird ones and I’m the normal one. Human beings are not supposed to process two opposite pieces of information and come out on top of it. They are just not.

The year I retired I had only one goal: Play well in Indian Wells. Conquer the desert like Roberto Bolaño conquered 2666. I arrived 10 days early, brought my physio, coach and fitness trainer, bought those rocket-like Penn balls to see whether they would eventually bow to my will, and I finally cracked the code. It’ as simple as it is obvious: Do not think about it. Go up in string tension, change racquets frequently but other than that just proceed the way you would always do. Your talent, your unconscious, will find a way. I won one practice set after the other and when I was certain that the last year of my career will also be the one when I win Indian Wells, I tore my adductor. I thought I had conquered nature but nature bit back. The only way it knows how: Coldly and ruthlessly.

the palms bored me

When I think of Indian Wells, I think of Roberto Bolaño. He was the master of the desert just as much as I was its puppet. But mainly because of this quote:

“In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we’re no more than castrated cats.”

Grass is for cows and the desert is for solar panels. That’s my take-away and I stand by it.

I will, of course, watch every single match contested over there. I will marvel at other players’ congeniality and quietly seethe in jealousy. That’s what I’ve done in the past and that’s what I plan on doing in the future.

Things that make me happy:

I don’t eat much meat anymore these days even though I quite like it. But the planet and my health and the cost of living… you know the drill. Every now and then however, on special occasions like your brother-in-law is in town I enjoy a quintessential New York Steakhouse experience. Yesterday’s one was particularly great. We went to Hawksmoor on 22nd Street which is funny because I said “quintessential New York experience” and it’s in fact a British steakhouse. Sorry to New Yorkers. The room is beautiful, the food is fantastic und do yourself a favour and order the Pink Grapefruit drink for extraordinary friskiness quality.

he’s an english man in new york

Things that make me unhappy:

I fly often (so much for the planet) and lately people wearing track suits on airplanes has become a regular sight. I understand comfort and I understand the much-needed air in sensitive areas on long-haul flights. But you’re in public space! Unless you’re a professional athlete or have health issues or are over 70 years old you can and should wear pants you didn’t spill coffee on earlier that day. I feel like there is a societal critique to be found here, of how “the epidemic of track suits is symbolic for the downfall of Western civilisation” or something along the lines of it. But I’m sure smarter people than me have already written that piece. In short: Wear proper pants.

This is it for this week. I can’t wait to send this newsletter out and then sit in front of my TV and watch Indian Wells all day. I’m a traitor to myself! Don’t ever listen to me! Wear track suits! See you all very soon with desert sand in your hair.

Yours truly, Andrea