Confessions of a Tennis Junkie

Jerry Lewis made only one significant film—The King of Comedy—also starring Robert De Niro.  There is no doubt that the quality of Lewis’ performance is aided in no small measure by Martin Scorsese’s direction.

On the surface, the film explores the uneasy relationship between a star and his “fans.”  It is a quirky, edgy film—leaving onlookers feeling just a little uncomfortable, a little claustrophobic as De Niro and Sandra Bernhard harass Jerry, a famous talk show host, by following him around, invading his office, showing up at his house and eventually kidnapping him.

That is basically how I feel about my own addiction.  I am a tennis junkie.

You may find me at all hours watching grainy, often jerky live-streaming matches on my laptop or worse yet, sitting with my chin in my hands watching scores blink on a “live score” site just so I can try to keep up with a worldwide sport largely ignored in the United States. 

The truth of the matter is that I secretly suffer from TOPD—Tennis Obsessive Personality Disorder. 

Throughout the years I have been obsessed with particular players, starting with the body-beautiful Bjorn Borg.  Currently I am embroiled in my Roger Federer phase and I have been ever since chiseled Federer defeated Sampras at Wimbledon in 2001. 

Being a “fan” of someone I do not know and will never know—following every move, word and gesture—strikes me as intrusive and unnatural.  When Roger loses, I feel like someone close to me died.  I suffer. 

This puts me on par with the crazed characters in Scorsese’s film.  Yet, I am not a fool—I know my behavior is excessive and I feel guilty about it.  I long to be objective.

Here is the cruel irony of being an obsessed tennis fan—being the fan of an actor allows for decades of adulation.  Even fans of teams can cheer on year after year, regardless of who populates the roster. 

But to reach the top in tennis is an incredible feat.  To stay at the top is an even greater accomplishment.  Impossibly, once on top, the fan needs the reign to go on forever.  It becomes, then, not Roger Federer’s Quest for Perfection, but our expectation of it.

  Moreover, it is the media’s insatiable need to report, to stay on top, to be relevant that spurs on the constant demand for victory on a perfect note. 

First, we nag Roger to win a Major—then a Slam.  When he does that, we insist that he win two—then three—every year! 

When he wins three—we chide him for not winning the French—just as we did Borg, who never won the U.S. Open; or Sampras, who also never won the French; or Wilander, who never won Wimbledon. 

Agassi won on all surfaces and an Olympic gold medal, but he didn’t win enough.  We are never satisfied as fans.  We are spoon-fed our natural dissatisfaction through the media who articulate shortcomings as if their livelihood depended on it!  We expect our sports heroes to obtain the perfection we lack in our own lives. 

Throughout the years, I have come to understand that a “fan” like me invests heavily in the life of the star athlete.  We who lead lives of quiet desperation, associating our own well-being through the success of our heroes.

No one applauds my sacrifices or successes.  No one follows me around and bombards me with questions.  The public remains blankly unaware of me.  That is not to say that what I do for a living is less important, but it is easier to accomplish.

There are thousands capable of doing what I do—but only one or two who stand at the pinnacle of tennis.  As my roles in life diminish and my persona fades, I rely on tennis to fill the voids left by age, divorce, solitude, and lack of talent. 

I think what Scorsese was getting at in his film was perspective—from whose point of view is the truth revealed?