I’ve ranted, raved and complained like a 2-year-old with no cookie about the United States Tennis Association. And just when I thought I was out for good, they pulled me back in.
We don’t need no stinkin’ USTA. We have more fun just showing up at the Third World and playing with ourselves.
We don’t need no stinkin’ league and playing at strange parks with even stranger people –a significant number of whom make bad line calls or have annoying habits just so they can say they “won something” in their miserable little “loser” lives.
Here’s my theory… We could have our own tournament that’s 10-times better than the USTA. We save the $120-$200 we pay a year in league fees and USTA membership. During the annual trip to La Jolla, we invite the rest of the fucked up team to rent a house in San Diego. They would have to pay that shit if they ever made it to sectionals…
We pool that league money to cover the daily La Jolla club fee ($30-40 a day per person) and save the rest for drinks on the private beach. Beats the fuck out of Albuqueque in May or Surprise, Az in August.
But nobody fucking listens to my plans.
Instead, the original douchebag millennial claimed my little rant with a Kafka comparison had a “powerful impact” on him.
I highly suspect he learned that he would be number 20 on the Crustacean bench.
Either way, he “re-captained” the fucked-up team and went about recruiting a whole new crop of the gullible to join him in his quest for second place. (None shall pass the Crustaceans…)
To his credit, that tiny millennial also worked on his game, gave up that wimpy slice forehand and won at least twice as many matches as an empty court.
Jesus was his first disciple and others quickly followed. But Gibson and Larry (the fermentor guy) held out.
I got the surgery and the cortisone, and soon the Douchebag Millennial came knocking with a series of text messages that amounted to unsolicited beggary.
Eventually I rejoined the team. Gibson and Larry came too, and the douchebag started putting us in every match he could.
He put me with Jesus on court 1 doubles. Everybody wins with Jesus. So Jesus carried me to 3 wins. Then I was done. Bad knees and vacations put me out of the rest of this season.
Larry played two matches and fled to Germany so he didn’t have to deal with the other teams — especially the whinning little Dick Weiner who hates music and “gibber-gabber.” Larry is full of both.
Just like he predicted, Gibson got stuck in almost every match. He did his “Deputy Droop-a-Long” impersonation and bitched about how terrible he is on his way to 7 wins.
But the one loss will haunt him through 2020. I’m sure he will lock himself in a closet and self-flagellate with a tennis racket until he has enough scars to allow him to forgive himself for missing 4 shots in 8 matches.
Did the fucked-up team get to second place and ever threaten the hegemony of the Crustaceans? Nope. Ended the year 7-8 and a solid 4th out of 6 teams. That’s good enough to make the playoffs in the NBA or NFL… But in the USTA, only the top team moves on.
I paid my $30 or $40 or whatever fucking dollars to be a card-carrying member of the USTA. Bitching that the website which will only work in Firefox and paying the fees to be part of a league I really don’t want to join.
It did give me free breakfast for 2 for 4 days at the LJBTC community in La Jolla, so I guess you could say it “paid” for itself.
But the USTA is cutting corners… I lied. I’m not a card-carrying member, because the USTA is too fucking cheap to even give out membership cards anymore. $40 bucks for nothing.
I could have told the LJBTC any damn 9-number ID, and I’d get free food for a week.
But I didn’t find that out until the USTA had my membership dues in their grimy little hands.
Maybe 2020 will finally be the year I shake off the shackles of the USTA and convince my fucked-up team we can do better… But you know that’s never gonna happen — there’s almost a million members of the USTA for a reason.
I don’t know what that reason is, but everytime I think I’m free, they keep sucking me back in.