On mornings the past few weeks before work I’ve flipped on the Tennis Channel with breakfast, watching the ATP matches on red clay from Monte Carlo, Barcelona and this past week Rome, perhaps the best time of year for the tennis tour as long as you don’t mind that there aren’t any American competitors deep in the draw.  (Although John Isner and Sam Querrey beat the great Roger Federer and Yves Allegro in doubles in Rome yesterday; they took my advice and hit the ball to Allegro.)

Soon the tour will move on to Madrid and then onto Paris, like some modern day Hemingway trail of tennis battled across red dirt courts.  I can’t help thinking I’ve lived my life all wrong, watching this from a Philadelphia rowhouse, having to leave for work when the matches are just getting interesting.  Next life I’m going to learn Spanish and Italian and finagle some sort of job related to pro tennis, or maybe reincarnation will come with a better backhand.  Or maybe, just maybe, a novel about tennis I recently finished, entitled Red Dirt, will sell and I’ll get invited over there — and could even afford to go.

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