You Can Get There From Here:
Part 9

Barry Buss

I sloshed my way through a torturous hour of drilling. Nobody wanted to be there. Not Coach, not the team, definitely not myself. But I grinded as hard as I could. Put on court five with the scrubs, I was being challenged. Was Coach testing me or done with me?

Coach called the team in. A teachable moment. We got chewed out like never before. No names need be mentioned, but we quit on him. As he continued to chew, a sinking feeling swept over me. He was calling me out for quitting. I'd committed tennis' cardinal sin. No way I ever played for UCLA again.

But in fairness, I did give Coach my all. I simply had nothing left to give. My tank was empty, I'd been running on fumes for weeks now. Yet here I stood, burned out, emotionally fried, hungover as all fuck, and with every fiber of my being wanting the day off, yet knowing if he didn't play me, I'd be getting a lot more than a day off.

Coach began to announce the day's line-up. I was torn. Sit me, play me. A part of me was good either way. Going through the line-up, he reached six singles. Seven of us there, only one spot left.