The Palm Springs Experience

        Because of the amount of talk it generated, I really expected a lot more out of Palm Springs. Conversations of planned vacations to this far away land seemed to be a thing of fashion, and I was a few hundred bucks short of Gucci. My time share. My hotel stay. My get away. That was what they talked about, so when my mom invited me to go with her on a trip to this magical land, I was already imagining the stories I would share the next time someone bragged about their Palm Springs experience.

          After the two hour car ride, however, I was wondering if we had gone to the wrong Palm Springs.

          The drive was boring. The sun was hot. Palm Springs itself was a bad imitation of an oasis. However, Mom had taken me out of school for the trip, so I really couldn’t complain. Besides, I was determined to go home with a tale worth telling. My story already had an edge, because I was going to the BNP Paribas Tennis Open—an annual tournament which features 160 professional tennis players. I was a high school tennis player, aspiring to make a college team, so this was supposed to be a big deal for me. Let’s just say I was too big-headed to fully recognize the gravity of the occasion or the fact that the tournament was not actually in Palm Springs—it was just outside, in a town called Indian Wells.

            It was not until I was a few hundred feet away from the number five player in the world, Rafael Nadal, that things became real. Spoiler alert: he won the entire tournament and finished the year ranked number one in the world.

            As I watched him step onto the court, I realized he was much taller than I had presumed. And much more handsome. It was a joy to watch the swarthy Spaniard effortlessly dance about the court. After too brief a time, his handler led him away. Nadal loomed an entire head above us mortal folk.

            Without the demi-god as a distraction, I was left to remember what a disappointment Palm Springs was. My mom and I tried to watch a few tournaments, but the sun was relentless. By the time we would finish applying a layer of sunblock, our sweat would wash away our efforts. It was only noon and I was beginning to wonder if I should avoid ever mentioning that I had been to Palm Springs. Surely, I was doing something wrong.

            To replenish our energy, my mom and I hit the food stands. I don’t remember anything particularly wonderful or horrible about what I was eating, but I will never forget the moment I recognized the Bryan brothers. Those blessed twins, those iconic figures of the doubles game, were standing on the stage taking questions from the crowd. I moved in closer to see if either of them was without a wedding band…I mean…I moved in closer to absorb their expertise. Doubles, the game which allows lazy people with quick reflexes to call themselves athletes, was my strength and it was the Bryan brothers’ specialty. If I had brought a notepad I probably would have taken notes. Sadly, those precious moments in the presence of their greatness were gone too soon. Again, I was left with thoughts of how poor my Palm Springs experience was proving to be.

            Finally, the time came when we got to take our seats in the main arena. This was expected to be the highlight of the day, the crème de la crème. I optimistically nestled into my chair, ready to watch two of the world’s greatest go head to head. And of course the sun was in my eyes. But it was nearly set. And it seemed like miles stretched between our lofty seats and the green court below. But my mom had gotten the tickets at a discount. And Palm Springs was ridiculously overrated. It was no use. I now had a bad attitude.

              Energy hummed through the stadium, even at times when the crowd was supposed to be respectfully silent. When a point was made cheers erupted. I remained in a bad mood. What was I supposed to tell people when they asked how my Palm Springs experience had treated me? That I had been just feet away from Nadal, that I had gleaned tennis wisdom from the Bryan brothers, that I was watching tennis history unfold? I came out of my self-absorbed stupor with a jolt, realizing that if I did not engage I would miss the reality of this extraordinary situation. After that, I began focusing on the game and the next time the crowds cheered I prepared myself to join in. I pumped myself up and opened my mouth to produce my own exultations. I was ready. I was so ready to cheer on this game, this game of life. I was born ready!

              Unfortunately, just as a shout came forth from the depths of my being, the cheers around me died down. And even more unfortunate was the sound that came forth. Apparently, I had not consciously decided if I would contribute a “Yah” or a “Whoo.” So I produced a, “Wahhhhhh!” Surely, it was loud enough that the tennis players themselves took the briefest of moments to glance up at the nose bleed section. I cannot convey the pains my mother and I went through to restrain our laughter, so as to appease those deities below on their green court. And I really cannot say what happened after that.