Sidelines
College tennis
is music to the earsThere are two things all of us should do. One, of course, is to broaden our horizons. The second, as this is the sports section, is if you ever have the chance to watch the No. 1 team in the country play the No. 3 team in the country, do it.
No. 1 against No. 3 is a special intensity. A little electric charge, even if no one is watching. Exactly why we should.
This is how I ended up in Laie Tuesday watching the No. 1 BYU-Hawaii men's tennis team go at it with the third-ranked Hawaii Pacific University men's tennis team. Best against best is always fun, even if you have no idea what the heck is going on.
But tennis is an exciting sport when done well -- much like volleyball, but with more rallies and less rally scoring.
There is, unfortunately, also much more groaning. Now, having watched tennis on television, I was somewhat familiar with the groaning. In fact, I thought it was kind of cool. But I wasn't prepared for the, uh, depth of the sounds that came out of these people in real life.
Thoonk! ...
"Unnnnnnngh!"
Thoop! ...
"Eyooaaah!"
Womp! ...
"Ooohhhhhh!"
Tock! ...
"Huuuuuuhh!"
And so on. To be frank, the whole thing made me a little uncomfortable. Finally, someone sneaks a triumphant shot past the other guy: "Unnnnngh! ... COME ON!"
"Come on!" is what you say after every good shot. They aren't even talking to the ball. This is after the point is already over, and it is clear that they've won, the official reflex of celebration. As if it's an overwhelming impulse that just spills out of them, a split second loss of control, a split second's freedom from oneself.
The guy who lost the rally also has his own cry. It is something along the lines of: "OoohhhhhhAAAYAAAAGGHH!" This is the normal groan morphing into a cry of frustration and pain as he realizes something has gone horribly wrong. He then mumbles to himself in his native language and perhaps takes an angry swipe at open air with his racquet, or kicks it or does an eye roll/glare combination that would probably injure you permanently if you tried it at home.
The best part was the doubles, the tag-team, close range, whiplash-inducing back and forth action that kept the crowd entranced. The bleachers (OK, bleacher) overflowed and people peeked through the green windscreen surrounding the courts. The bystanders gaped at the deftness and hustle and hushed as the fuzzy yellow ball was hit so forcefully it once found itself wedged firmly in the net.
The guys groaned and yelped and mumbled and ran so hard and stopped so suddenly their joints should have snapped.
Tahitian drums carried on the wind, as the Polynesian Cultural Center unknowingly provided a dramatic background soundtrack from next door.
A ball settled just inside the line, and a fierce competitor loathly gave up the chase. More than four hours of fury later, BYUH would win.
Kalani Simpson's column runs Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays.
He can be reached at ksimpson@starbulletin.com