**Haven't posted in a while (sorry!), so here is the longest post I've written with the most pictures and 3, count em' 3, videos.
There are days you'll remember for the rest of your life. And there was yesterday. I guess the best place to start is the beginning. Since I didn't get you up to speed on how La Tranche-sur-Mer finished I'll begin there. I played a 2/6 Frenchman on Saturday morning at 10:30. I played bad. Very bad. I was down 0-6, 0-4 in thirty minutes and was facing the first double bagel of my life. The frustrating thing was the guy wasn't even all that good. But I was making him look like Roger Federer. Eventually I settled in, but it was too late and I lost 0-6, 4-6. Despite my loss my trip to the semi-finals earned us our first paycheck and I walked away with 69 euros, or about $85. After my match we went to the beach for a while and eventually made our way some 300 kilometers to the city where our next tournament was held, La Chatre.
Leaving La Trance-sur-Mer, notice this is Sable road. Not my last name, but that's how they pronounce it here anyway.
Frank had to tinkle on the way.
Now 300 kilometers is far, but if we were to take the highway it was only going to take us 3 hours and 30 minutes. However, going on the highways is the not the way to travel. First, our rental car agreement only allows us 4,000 kilometers, and the highway routes are always the routes that exhaust the most kilometers. You only make up speed because you can go 130 KPH. Second, and more importantly, the highway tolls are so expensive. Going 300 kilometers would cost you at least 25 euros in tolls, it's ridiculous. So we take back roads, where the speed limit is 90 KPH, and it took us about 5 hours to get to La Chatre.
The drive from La Tranche-sur-Mer to La Chatre had kilometer after kilometer of sunflower fields.
We didn't arrive until 23:00, but there was still a match being played. We were greeted by two women who were both very kind. One was rather portly, and the other cackled like Corolla De Ville from her decades of cigarette smoking, and neither spoke a word of English. They showed us to our campsite, which was just a field next to the club, let us shower, and somehow made it clear that they were going to serve us breakfast at 9:00 the next morning. We woke to a fantastic breakfast spread. Croissants, chocolate bread, tea, coffee, biscuits, you name it. We were introduced to Phillip, the president of the club, as well as several locals. It became clear quite quickly that Americans never come to La Chatre, and that they were very happy to have us. But before long Frankie and I both had matches to play.
The club is small, but the courts are very similar to American hard courts. A rarity here.
This tournament was limited to 2/6, so Frankie and I were the number 1 and 2 seeds and were starting in the semifinals. Had we lost in our first match we would've made 50 euros, basically, had we lost we would've been paid to show up. But today the sun was shining. Frankie was playing a 15/1 who had been on a tear. In the round of 16 the guy had beaten a 5/6 and in the quarters he had taken down a 4/6 so despite his ranking he could play. As I begin my match Frank was struggling. The guy was an animal and refused to miss. Frank went down 1-3, before realizing the guy was a 15/1 for a reason. He couldn't handle pressure. Anytime you came to the net he tried to rope a winner and would hit balls that were still rising when they hit the fence. Once Frank figured out poor David's weakness the guy had no shot. Frank took the first set 6-4 and the second set 6-1. The weird thing was, after the match David, Frank's opponent, was wheezing and stretching out like they had just played a marathon match, when in reality it was like a 1 hour and 15 minute semi-close match. I guess this French people really smoke too many cigarettes.
We had lunch with this guy. Believe it or not, he was a bit out there.
My opponent was a tall lefty whose ranking was 3/6. This is the 3rd lefty I'd played in a row so I was quite used to the reverse spin. The match started out very close, he broke me early and kept his break until 2-3 when I broke back. He had a solid forehand, and a good one-handed backhand. But, as Gustavo has told us, players are there ranking for a reason, and this guy was a 3/6 because his game broke down. After 10 games of rallies that consistently extended 20 shots he couldn't handle it. He started to miss more and more, and he and I both knew this was only going to end one way. I took the first set 6-3, then fell behind 1-3 in the second before reeling off 5 straight games for a 6-3, 6-3 win. Now I was set to face Frankie in the finals at 16:30.
After our matches, which ended at almost identical times, we were treated to a huge applause and the club director requested we stay for lunch. Seated with 10 other club members we were served a fine meal, where I absent-mindedly mentioned to one of the few people who spoke English how similar their courts were to American hard courts. When he translated this in to French the entire crowd gushed with pride and Frankie and I were now cemented as La Chatre tennis club's surrogate children. We had about 4 hours before the final was to take place and Frankie was whisked away to one of the club member's tennis shop, which was in the center of town, to string a racquet. While I hung around at the club I spoke to a few of the younger kids who were enamored with both Frankie and I.
One of them, a 12 year-old named Jules, clearly wanted to hit some tennis balls so I asked him, or rather someone who spoke French and English asked him, and I think I made his week by rallying with him for 30 minutes. The club director cautioned me to not to because he didn't want me to be too tired for the finals. But I assured him it would be okay. After Frankie got back we were served an afternoon snack of tea and coffee and then slowly began our warmup for the match. About an hour before the match there were 25 people at the club. A half hour before, 40 people. And at match time well over 50 people were there to watch Frankie and I play. This was a joke, a match between us wouldn't warrant the attention of a collection of homeless people in the United States. But here the entire club was watching, and thrilled to do so.
The crowd gathering pre-match.
The first 3 games were as nervous as nervous gets. Neither of us has played in front of a crowd this size and this is no ordinary crowd. They shout, "Ohh-Laa-Laa" when a good shot is hit and erupt in applause. A missed volley that you very well should've made results in a quite audible gasp from the entire crowd. It's damn nerve wracking. But after the first couple of games we settle in and are playing quite well, until 4-4 when Frank ups the ante. All match he has been serving bombs, but now he ratchets up his forehand. He puts every ounce of his body behind every swing and I'm just trying to block the ball back. Finally he breaks me to go up 6-5 and then hits back to back aces that were legitimately 110 MPH to start his service game. The crowd gasping with every swing of the racquet. He holds and takes the first set 7-5. In the second it's more of the same. He hits at minimum an ace and a service winner per game so I'm struggling to just win points on his serve. He breaks me to go up 3-2, and then breaks again to go up 5-2. Things are looking bad. At 30-30 he hits a kicker out wide and sprints to net where he sends an easy forehand volley long. The crowd can't believe it. I see several man throw their hands up in the air in disbelieve. Why do they care so much? I just don't understand. I break, then hold and all of the sudden it's 5-4, and I have a chance. But I'm playing Pete freaking Sampras. First point, service winner wide, 15-0. Next point, I see a second serve and manage to win the point after a grinding winner. Third point, service winner. I'm about to tomahawk my racquet across the court because Frankie is literally hitting serves that sound like gunshots when the ball hits the strings. 30-15, again I scrape out a tough point. 30-30, I'm leaning wide, because that's where he's been going when nervous. Instead he opts for an 110 MPH serve up the T, that hits the line. Not a human on earth could've returned it. 40-30, match point. I miss a return I actually should've made and Frankie wins. Standing ovation from the crowd. WHY do these people care so much? After the match he are feted with beer, wine, and pastries and begin chatting up a nice guy who speaks English. It's small talk, nothing to important, but it pays off later.
Setting up for the awards show.
The trophy presentation
Frankie's trophy. The thing is ridiculous.
Barcelon owns the local soccer club. He also had at least 5 cigars during the course of the day.
Frank kissing Barcelon's ring, the guy only wore gold and had a lot of it.
After an impressive award show, where Frankie wins a trophy the size of the U.S. Open trophy we both are quite happy with are 'schwag' bags and our prize money. Frank takes home 150 euros, while I get 80. Almost $400 in prize money, not too bad. Shortly after the award ceremony, Godfried, the gentlemen we'd been talking too invites us to his house for dinner and tells us we can sleep there. We happily accept and while he takes his kids home we take down our tent and exchange e-mails with several people who insist they will send us pictures from the match. We also exchanged e-mails with a few kids who want to come to our next tournament and watch us play. WHY THE HELL do they care so much?
Godfried's father's house. That's Godfried on the left.
Heading for dinner after l'apertif.
Pretty awesome view from Godfried's yard.
The house was built in the 1800s and is undergoing a bit of restoration.
The view from our bedroom in the morning.
We arrive at Godfried's father's house, Godfried actually lives an hour away, and the guy lives in a mansion that would make Harry Potter jealous. Fortunately for us we arrive at l'apertif, some sort of appetizer affair that involves drinking and eating meat. We both enjoy this immensely. We have a great dinner, sleep in comfortable beds, and as we pack in the morning Godfried's wife asks us if we would like to come back for dinner and stay the night again? Why would we say no?
Château Sazray.
The moat that apparently used to be quite impressive.
Inside the castle.
I have to rush now because the wifi spot I'm at is nearly closed. But today we went to Chateau Sarzay, a cool castle built in the 14th century and then took care of some telephone problems, in seems we always have these. We opted for Chateau Sarzay because it was rather cheap and we're glad we did. The owner was crazy and had hoarded the oddest collection of things. We're just about to head back to Godfried's for more dinner and we're both quite happy about it. We play again at 18:00 on the 14th in a town about 20 minutes away. Hopefully I can write again soon.
The crest of the Barconois family, who originally built the castle. The 3 leopard heads represent the decapitated heads of 3 Englishmen. But there was a note apologizing if it disrespected any Englishmen.
For some reason there were tons of wedding dresses in the castle. It was quite odd.
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