1978*. A long forgotten bar somewhere between Georgia and the Manhattan skyline. Me and me mates— two Aussie pros, barely stayin’ alive as we plied our skills in the grimy underbelly of professional tennis’ minor leagues — were sitting at a table watching other people put on their boogie shoes. Fatty and Warren were drinking beers, and I was sipping 7-Ups as we endured another night on disco mountain. We watched in shock and disbelief as one of the worst players on the circuit — a “poser” who never won a match — was jive talkin’ the hottest girls in the club and then turning the dance floor into a disco inferno.
Given the amount of neck hair, Neanderthal features and uni-brow, we just couldn’t figure out how this guy was succeeding.
Of course, we didn’t have the courage to ask anyone. That might have been the reason we never caught even the mildest case of night fever. I yearned to ask a girl “how deep is your love,” but could never find the magic words — that open sesame to help me win her over. On the other hand, I’m not sure I wanted to risk spending the night with a girl who was more than a woman.
Thank the Lord, the weirdness that was Ric Ocasek and The Cars came out a couple of months later. I had some new musical heroes, and never had to worry about disco dancing again.
*A real memory, told from my perspective 38 years ago as a young, horny, but painfully shy athlete.