March 1996: My Apartment, Tampa
As predictable as Cal Ripken in a Baltimore Oriole’s lineup card, the same question always arises when the topic turns to tennis: “Dave, in all the years of playing tennis, who’s the best player you ever beat?”
My mind is then sent racing, certain that somehow I will come up with an answer that will leave me satisfied and my (tennis novice) friend duly impressed. My memory scans all those national tournaments I played, the Florida sectional events, my college years. Well, there were Vince Spadea, Brett Hansen-Dent, Tommy Ho, Paul Kilderry (all currently tour professionals) I think to myself. But I hesitate. That foursome may as well be an International Yodeling Ensemble to a nontennis fan. Next, I think of players I lost to: Jim Courier, David Wheaton. But, so what? Anybody can lose to Jim Courier. Finally, desperate, I am about to blurt out a boldfaced lie--Oh, well, you see, Andre Agassi just couldn’t handle my kick serve--when my conscience grabs me by the throat. I have nothing to be ashamed of; I’m really proud of that win and the Florida High School State Championship that went along with it.
“Vince Spadea,” I say confidently.
“Who???”August 1996: U.S. Open 3rd round
This is it. Already up two sets to one, Spadea finally breaks Michael Chang to lead 5-4 in the fourth set. He needs only to hold serve one last time to score the biggest upset of the tournament, to put his name on the international tennis map and, most importantly, to bolster my friend’s opinion of my tennis exploits. It seems a sure thing. Spadea has been running Chang across the five boroughs, bullying him from side to side with his brutal two-handed backhand. Shoot, with the way Spadea is playing, reaching the semifinals is a realistic possibility. Maybe even . . . the whole Big Apple Pie. Forget my friend. I can see the book contract--The Spadea Rules by David McPherson, tennis guru. Then, suddenly, faster than I can say Simon and Schuster, Chang breaks Spadea at love, holds at love, and breaks again to win the fourth set. Chang will go on to win the final set 6-3 and ensure that The Best Player I Ever Beat remains as obscure as Salieri.May 1989: University of Florida Varsity Courts
My game plan is working to perfection. Use the slice backhand. Don’t expose your shillelagh of a topspin stroke. Move him around a lot; he’s still tired from a three-setter this morning. Get him frustrated. Most of all, avoid his %$#@& backhand like a Chernobyl nuclear plant. Maybe one day he’ll be making the big bucks but this is my time, my tournament, my fifteen minutes. About as calm as Barney Fife on a first date, I somehow manage to close out my final service game and claim a 6-3, 6-3 victory. Afterwards I soak in the glory of the moment: a pat on the back from my coach, an interview with the Gainesville Sun, a compliment from Spadea (“He’s a good player who was on top of his game.”), a photo in Section F, page 14 of the Tampa Tribune.April 1997: U.S. Clay Court Championships, Orlando
We sneak away from the stadium court to see if the action is any better on the grandstand. A surprisingly large crowd is assembled for a doubles match and it erupts with raucous applause as a topspin lob delicately finds the corner of the doubles alley. I peek around some spectators seated in the first row of bleachers and my interest suddenly peaks when I notice a stocky, dark-complexioned player preparing to return serve.
I turn to my friend, a college tennis player who doesn’t know Vince Spadea from Vince Van Patton and boldly state, “Watch this.”
The server opts for a seemingly safe strategy--spinning his second serve to the backhand corner of the service court and awaiting his first volley. Spadea opts for a screaming backhand winner down the line as the crowd ooohs and aaahs and questions, “Who is this Vince Spadea?”
“Sure, his ranking’s dropped a little,” I tell whoever will listen. “But, when he’s got that backhand going, it takes one heck of a player to beat Vince Spadea.”June 2014: 25th High School Reunion, Clearwater
I survey the crowded auditorium, walk past the punch bowls and the impossibly cheerful ex-cheerleader, and finally locate a couple of garrulous ex-tennis teammates. I do my best to answer their barrage of questions. The family is healthy and happy, thank you. The sports writing career is doing swell. No, I don’t think the Bucs will win a Super Bowl in our lifetime. Finally, the conversation shifts to tennis and, specifically, the greatest players of the Open Era. The serve and volley genius of John McEnroe receives mention as does the all-court tenacity of Jimmy Connors. And no one can argue with Pete Sampras’ record 13 Grand Slam titles, even though he never did win the French. Finally, someone mentions that late bloomer named Vince Spadea who won a couple of major titles in the late nineties. Then we all reminisce on our own greatest matches and, after much anticipation, that question is thrown my way yet again.
“So, what was your biggest win back then?”
I smile. “Well, there was this match my senior year. . . .”
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