They call me by the moniker of Teddy Two Hands, for my prowess at hitting blazing-fast and spacially-accurate (the balls go where I want them to) backhands with either hand. My birth name is Theodore Pensaglick but it’s been so long since anyone’s actually called me that that it sounds foreign, even to me. I was always at a loss RE the etymology of my name too. I mean Theodore, though a bit overused, is common enough and easy to understand but Pensaglick? I mean, really? It sounds like someone slashed a bunch of words to pieces and then mashed them together again all jumbled and out of sequence. There’s apparently no history to the name beyond my grandparents. None that I can find, anyway.
I’m relatively new as far as the average ETA resident goes. I hold many junior titles; local, state and regional and am just happy to be here. But I don’t care about any of that. All I really care about is not working. Never having to slog it for a dollar on a day to day absolutely set schedule basis for one-third of my complete map’s entire existence. That always seemed like a complete waste of time so I knew at an early age that I needed to do something to avoid that at all costs. And that something was tennis. I didn’t even have to pick it, it was my God-blessed talent and all I had to do was exercise and play and exercise and play…Finally at ETA, I felt I was somewhere where there’s a group of people that I may actually consider my peers at a place where my talent will surely get noticed at the national and even tri-national level. A sure ticket to the show.
Through my eyes, other than tennis, most of my life is rather camera-obscuraish. A kind of backward, upside down and fuzzy existence. At least when compared with today’s ultra high-definition, digital and true to life pictures.
It’d be easy to put the blame on Pemulis and his substance-dependent existence. Smart though, that goddamn Pemulis. Off the charts according to the Stanford-Binet Intelligence Scales and enterprising, too, with his peddling of pills, powders, occasional pot and completing the circle by selling Visine bottled urine during required annum substance use test times. I would almost bet that innocent little Mario is responsible for many an ETA student’s continued existence at the school. A seemingly naive, perpetually jolly, person that one. Pemulis probably didn’t even have to pay him for all those clean samples and he sells them for top dollar too. But really, who knew? I mean Mario has a pretty disabled map and maybe the only way he could function is to ingest some serious psychotropics, which might do who knew what in the testing kit. How else was he to have the patience to deal with that cumbersome and, by all appearances, really heavy police lock? Mario may even have been in on the whole distribute clean urine ring. And if that was the case, he could probably only see it in the light of doing good. There was no way ever see it as himself being an enabler and perpetuator of despicable habits. I for one was eternally thankful because mostly those who would share their pee weren’t clean and the one who were clean wouldn’t share and may even request a visit with CJ to turn you in.
Almost ironically, the rather innocuous Debois was one of the harder substances to acquire, but also the one I needed the most and if Im being honest the only one I really cared about at all. I never play with harder stuff anymore; it’s too distracting and the show is way too important to put in jeopardy with something as trivial as that, but the good old ‘Bob’ is how I relieve the stress of a trying day and maybe more importantly, deal with people’s disingenuous platitudes. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, or if you even care but that’s most of them. Good old Mikey was prattling on one day, albeit almost incoherently (I suspected DMZ, tenuate or DMT, I’m not really sure which but I didn’t really have the desire to find out and doubted very much Pemulis would have even understood my question much less be able to formulate an answer) one long winter evening about Mr. Hope’s ultra-slim profit margins and Gentle’s gentle urging, or so Pemulis fantasized anyway, to eventually, like in the very near future, make the green legal, without exception and O.N.A.N. wide.
But, as I said, I can’t blame that markedly intelligent mad lobber, substance user for enabling me. I can only blame myself for not having the strength to stave off my anxiety any other way and it helps too to relieve the stress of a 16-hour, non-stop, G. Schtitt-centric, day, which is trying for the mind and achey for the body every time. Even for someone like me, who’s had as much cardiocardio and strength conditioning as anyone before coming here. The best way I’ve found to get it all to melt away and relax as quickly as possible and still be able to somewhat function and also, incidentally, to not become an immediate and mandatory resident of that crazy house at the bottom of the hill. For the love of God, Schtitt doesn’t need another head case to call reverent. And I for one, don’t want to lose all hopes of getting to the show by imbibing in high THC content, Bob Hope. That would be a travesty for all involved.
The lemon pledge thing is a first-rate myth. It doesn’t work one bit and it really messes with my sinuses. I tried it once and sprayed it on before my first real tennis match here and got a worse sunburn than if I had put on nothing. As if it intensified the effects of the blazing sun, instead of blocking it. The pervasive smell of synthetic lemon also made me nauseous during and after my tennis match and of course it had to be my first one against an A-lister. I fought through it, quickly running to the side of the court between points to lose my lunch and then running back to play the next point. Even through the queasiness, I won easily but then spent the next two days confined to quarters, sick as I ever remember being in my entire life. My roommate was kind enough to keep a constant supply of crisp, clean, uncontaminated water at my bedside the whole time. I suffered from an extremely high fever and I could barely keep water down and definitely nothing solid at all. It got so bad, I almost consulted with that weirdo creep Lyle for help, though I couldn’t imagine how I’d make it down to the showers in such a state and the thought of having his tongue on my skin gave my the howling fantods worse than anything ever did. But I sure did have enough sweat to keep that sicko happy. Thank all the Gods that I never went to see him.
A week after I got better, my Big Brother buddy explained to me that the lemon pledge thing was kind of an initiation to the higher echelon of tennis players and that no, it never worked as a sunscreen and people didn’t normally have the kind of almost psychotic and physically debilitating reaction I had to it.
- Darius Blake
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