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2008 Indiana University Tennis Championship ( GONZO Journalism)
- By Jeremy Gross
- Published 08/8/2008
- Sports & Recreation
- Unrated
Jeremy Gross
I am 22 years old and live in Greenfield, Indiana. Life has a lot to offer and I plan to bleed it dry!
View all articles by Jeremy Gross
2008 Indiana National Summer Tennis Championship
So there I was Monday, August 11, 2008. It was 11:00AM , and I had missed my scheduled arrival time at the stadium by three hours. I was there to cover the ITA National Summer Tennis Championships at the Bloomington-Indiana University campus.
The sun was warm, beating on the back of my head. My eyes were squinty; I had my pen and paper in one hand, and a half warm beer in the other that I had been using as a remedy to get rid of the hangover I had acquired only six hours before.
I had been only five minutes through the gate, and I began to ask myself what I was doing there. This gig was freelance after all, and there was no compensation for my work. And what the hell, I didn’t even like tennis for that matter. All I knew was that, out of all these queers and pansies wearing those tiny shorts that let their male appendages hang, there could only be one winner in the end. That would be the only person I would have to pay attention to, but which one of them was it. My beer was gone by now and I saw a table that said press on it. I made my way over, and stood in line.
Yes, a free T-shirt, at least I get something out of this mess of fools. “Size 3x please. What, 2x is the biggest you have?” You hateful bastards, I thought “Fine give me the damn thing.” I remember the fool behind me muttering something belligerently about my weight, when they didn’t have my size. I turned around and threw a five dollar bill at him and told him to get me a beer.
Day two, Tuesday, August 12, 2008, there I was with a black eye and cooler in hand; after being thrown out of the tournaments on day one, for getting into a fight with some upstanding citizen, whom I had never met, I figured it would be best to lay low. I acquired my badge from the press table, the one I hadn’t managed even get to the day before. They handed me my badge. “ John J.? What’s the J for?” the lady said. I was lucky they were volunteers, and they had switched shifts from the day before. “ Well miss, it actually stands for Jew!” I said. She looked at me in disgust and shoved past me to the next cannibal in line. There were only a few journalist there, and I could tell I was one of the elite. I picked a seat towards the top so I could see everything that was going on. I pointed and acted like I was talking to the guy next to me. He must have felt weird and some kind of uncomfortable, because he got up and moved immediately.
I opened my cooler, after all it was nearly 90 degrees already and it was only 10:00AM. I could tell some people were watching me by now. I was there with my cut off dress pants and a business shirt and tie. Not to mention the tattoo sleeved arms protruding from the rolled up shirt. I wasn’t sure why they were staring thought. I figured everyone brought their own cocktail mixes. “Let’s see here,” I said to myself. One Gatorade bottle-32oz filled to top with Rum, one Gatorade bottle- 32oz filled with kool-aid, one plastic oversized glass, two limes, one lemon, and a rather large umbrella to top it off. I mixed it all up and asked the lady two seats over if she needed a drink, after all she was gawking by this point.
I couldn’t wait to get into this tennis thing. I moved to the press benches when I saw them posted from across the way with the binoculars I had hanging around my neck. “You tricky bastards think you can hide from me!” I muttered. I sat down and said something like, “Has anyone scored a field goal yet?” I felt like a fool and like I had no clue what I was talking about by the looks on their face. “Are you with the press?” One lady asked. “Of course, why don’t I look like a member?” Yes, I could definitely tell at this point, I was one of the elite. At least I could tell who were press members and who weren’t..
The players kept hitting the ball back and forth, but after 22oz’s of my drink I had noticed I hadn’t a clue how this game was scored. Oh well, I thought. I’ll just ask someone at the end of this thing, “Who won?” I knew one of these fools would know. It was nine thirty at night and I was awoken by some kind of Spanish worker. “Senor, the tournament is over.” I could feel the burn on my face. “How long has it been over?” I ask the guy. “For five hours senor.” “You filthy, savage, bastards.” I said. ”What did you say senor?” “What ? Nothing!“ There I was passed out for nearly eight hours and no one managed to tell me to wake up. The tournament was over and I had no clue who had even won. I tried to ask the worker, but his English was so bad I couldn’t tell whether he said Rico, or Rico-wait Rico yes/no, my head was splitting from drinking the rum so fast. I stood up and managed to not get any of my vomit on the Spanish guy, but he still wasn’t happy with the mess.
“Sorry,” I said, ”I have to go I have a story to write! I have a deadline you know!” I got home and the only words I managed to get typed were ‘Rico won‘. By this time I had realized I wasn’t truly sure whether that was his first or last name.
BY: John J.
So there I was Monday, August 11, 2008. It was 11:00AM , and I had missed my scheduled arrival time at the stadium by three hours. I was there to cover the ITA National Summer Tennis Championships at the Bloomington-Indiana University campus.
The sun was warm, beating on the back of my head. My eyes were squinty; I had my pen and paper in one hand, and a half warm beer in the other that I had been using as a remedy to get rid of the hangover I had acquired only six hours before.
I had been only five minutes through the gate, and I began to ask myself what I was doing there. This gig was freelance after all, and there was no compensation for my work. And what the hell, I didn’t even like tennis for that matter. All I knew was that, out of all these queers and pansies wearing those tiny shorts that let their male appendages hang, there could only be one winner in the end. That would be the only person I would have to pay attention to, but which one of them was it. My beer was gone by now and I saw a table that said press on it. I made my way over, and stood in line.
Yes, a free T-shirt, at least I get something out of this mess of fools. “Size 3x please. What, 2x is the biggest you have?” You hateful bastards, I thought “Fine give me the damn thing.” I remember the fool behind me muttering something belligerently about my weight, when they didn’t have my size. I turned around and threw a five dollar bill at him and told him to get me a beer.
Day two, Tuesday, August 12, 2008, there I was with a black eye and cooler in hand; after being thrown out of the tournaments on day one, for getting into a fight with some upstanding citizen, whom I had never met, I figured it would be best to lay low. I acquired my badge from the press table, the one I hadn’t managed even get to the day before. They handed me my badge. “ John J.? What’s the J for?” the lady said. I was lucky they were volunteers, and they had switched shifts from the day before. “ Well miss, it actually stands for Jew!” I said. She looked at me in disgust and shoved past me to the next cannibal in line. There were only a few journalist there, and I could tell I was one of the elite. I picked a seat towards the top so I could see everything that was going on. I pointed and acted like I was talking to the guy next to me. He must have felt weird and some kind of uncomfortable, because he got up and moved immediately.
I couldn’t wait to get into this tennis thing. I moved to the press benches when I saw them posted from across the way with the binoculars I had hanging around my neck. “You tricky bastards think you can hide from me!” I muttered. I sat down and said something like, “Has anyone scored a field goal yet?” I felt like a fool and like I had no clue what I was talking about by the looks on their face. “Are you with the press?” One lady asked. “Of course, why don’t I look like a member?” Yes, I could definitely tell at this point, I was one of the elite. At least I could tell who were press members and who weren’t..
The players kept hitting the ball back and forth, but after 22oz’s of my drink I had noticed I hadn’t a clue how this game was scored. Oh well, I thought. I’ll just ask someone at the end of this thing, “Who won?” I knew one of these fools would know. It was nine thirty at night and I was awoken by some kind of Spanish worker. “Senor, the tournament is over.” I could feel the burn on my face. “How long has it been over?” I ask the guy. “For five hours senor.” “You filthy, savage, bastards.” I said. ”What did you say senor?” “What ? Nothing!“ There I was passed out for nearly eight hours and no one managed to tell me to wake up. The tournament was over and I had no clue who had even won. I tried to ask the worker, but his English was so bad I couldn’t tell whether he said Rico, or Rico-wait Rico yes/no, my head was splitting from drinking the rum so fast. I stood up and managed to not get any of my vomit on the Spanish guy, but he still wasn’t happy with the mess.
“Sorry,” I said, ”I have to go I have a story to write! I have a deadline you know!” I got home and the only words I managed to get typed were ‘Rico won‘. By this time I had realized I wasn’t truly sure whether that was his first or last name.
BY: John J.