The summer after my sophomore year of high school I got a job with sweet hours. It started at ten pm and ended anywhere from midnight to three am.
As I was in high school and I had no social life or car (or license, even) this was not money I actually needed. The job was just to do something, make money, and satisfy my dad.
In the mid-morning/lunch-time I would arise.
Ready to start yet another world-changing ambitious day.
First, breakfast. Then, sitting around for about ten hours. Then, work.
Life was good.
At some point, as it was summer, tennis began to dominate a lot of channels. Some famous tournament or another, probably, but I couldn’t be bothered with the trifling details. After all, we’re talking about tennis. Who really cares?
I watched anyway, though.
I had higher, more altruistic goals than mere sport.
Mine were matters of the heart.
It was around this time that the Anna Kournikova stuff was at a fever pitch. She’s so hot this and she’s so hot that. Blah blah blah.
People, listen – a lot of tennis players are hot.
These are tall, athletic, tan, lean people. What’s not hot about that?
Sure, there are some that are maybe, well, scary. These ones you count out.
But the rest … ahh … the rest.
I fell in love (not actually) maybe every other day.
Hello … beautiful.
Oh, look at that name you have. Isn’t that cute? I could never pronounce that even if I tried, my darling.
You will of course learn English, and find some magical way to make the Russian accent sound sexy rather than frightening? Oh, thank you my sweet.
I had come up with the perfect plan.
Forget this Kournikova stuff. She was too famous.
I would go to some tennis tournament with my sights set on some young, crappy tennis player who had, nevertheless, managed to qualify for this tournament.
She would be gorgeous, but she would be a loser – and therefore have her confidence shot.
I would have a shoulder to cry on.
That broad shoulder to cry on … Well, except when you compare my shoulders to hers. Then my shoulders, for some odd reason, make you think of Charlie Brown.
This unknown tennis player would then begin to like me. As she would inevitably continue to lose tournaments (and thus not gain fame or notice) I would be right there – comforting her, consoling her, offering to make out with her.
Unknown beautiful tennis players of the world, let me make this offer to you.
I don’t know really anything about tennis (I do own a racket though).
I don’t know anything about your crazy home country (in my country, my papa, he would catch fish, and then … we would eat it! Hahaha!).
I don’t even know anything about you (except that form-fitting tennis skirts are your friend).
I do know this – I’ll make out with you (lots).
Think it over.