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Linguistic diversity has arrived to the City of Portland’s public tennis programming in the form of ball machine drills conducted in Spanish and in Japanese. Conversations about how to better serve the city’s underrepresented language communities started within the Bureau of Parks & Recreation’s leadership team. In September 2023, Portland Tennis Center (PTC) began offering a recurring “Clase de tenis con maquina lanza pelotas en español,” taught by Coach David Rojas, a pro who is bilingual in Spanish and English. Spanish is by far the most widely spoken language in Portland, other than English. But once the multilingual gato is out of the bolso, the figurative feline is free to roam. The following month, Coach Wakana Turner began teaching a ball machine class in Japanese.

Eventually, PTC hopes to expand its non-English offerings into different age groups, types of classes and additional languages. Recreation Coordinator Ezra James explained that ball machine drills were the best type of class to begin with, in terms of access, because they’re “low pressure,” don’t require a rating and can accommodate players of various skill levels. Previewing languages that could be added, James noted that among coaches working at PTC there are also speakers of Vietnamese, Italian, Portuguese and Tagalog.

¿Alguien puede registrarse? While no sort of “language rating” is required to register, James pointed out that the online description of the Spanish-language ball machine drills, which Coach David came up with, is entirely en español. This makes for somewhat of a self-selecting group. Does that mean anyone curious about Spanish can sign up, even if they don’t know their derecha from their revés, or think “globo” refers only to a literal balloon? James stopped short of discouraging the use of the classes for language-learning purposes; they emphasized that the new offerings are intended to be safe spaces for members of the given language communities. Parks & Rec is still in the process of getting the word out to Portland’s Spanish and Japanese speakers. For the time being, there is ample room in the classes for multilinguals, players less proficient in English, heritage speakers and aspiring polyglots alike.

Not that those categories are mutually exclusive or cut and dry. Linguistic identity, like athletic ability, is famously fluid and dependent on context. The potential for any confusion around questions of inclusion will be at least partially limited by the fact that tennis is an increasingly diverse and globally minded sport. It’s a game with what Iranian-American poet and translator Roger Sedarat described as “universal referents.” Sedarat, who is an English professor, avid doubles player, and author of a book of tennis poems called Foot Faults, added that only a few words are needed to play an entire match. “The shared understanding of scores, faults, et cetera,” he explained, “naturally invites attempts at interlingual communication. Whatever language that's spoken between players already has a better chance of getting across, or rather over, the net.”

Multilingual communication plays a role in rooting on professionals, too. What Alcaraz fan, advanced at Spanish or not, hasn’t shouted “¡Vamos Carlitos!” at their televisión during some armrest-gripping turn of the tide?

While tennis translates well across languages, variation within languages is as common as variation within groundstrokes. One Spanish-speaker’s vocabulary isn’t necessarily the same as another’s, even when it comes to terms used for the same sport. A participant in Coach David’s class observed that the instructor, who hails from Colombia, uses the terms “bola” and “pelota” somewhat interchangeably, and does the same with “cancha” and “campo.” In the participant’s previous experiences with tenis en español, at public courts in Union City, New Jersey, a coach from Venezuela used only “pelota” to refer to the ball, and never anything but “cancha” to refer to the court. The same participant—who is conversant in Spanish, but not a native speaker or heritage speaker—found the application of familiar words in new contexts helpful and refreshing. Coach David’s tip to maintain “más distancia” between him and the bola, for instance, was easier for him to internalize and put into practice than the corresponding advice in English, which turns on “position,” a word that’s arguably more subjective.

On some level, even tennis played exclusively in English is actually a furtive multilingual experience. John McEnroe recalls, in an early episode of McEnroe’s Places, that when we say “love-love” to kick off a game, that’s not a nod to on-court amore; “love” comes from the French “l'œuf,” or “the egg,” he says. While Merriam-Webster disputes this theory as “folk etymology,” anyone who’s ever gotten goose-egged at Colonel Summers Park knows that the shape of an œuf resembles a zero. Could PTC’s embrace of tennis across languages spill over into multilingual pick-up matches? If you hear players announcing “huevo-huevo” or “tamago-tamago” before blasting their opening serves, you’ll know the answer is affirmative.

The Courterly plans to report back as PTC’s offerings in languages other than English expand, settle into monthly slots and attract greater attention. Does this amateur dialectologist anticipate any matata resulting from the city’s efforts to increase access and enrich linguisticity in the dunia of Portland tennis? In a word—or in a series of words, all corresponding: いいえ; không; não; hindi; нет; لا; no.

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Author's note: Back in the early 90s, I was working up the ranks as a junior intern at the Rick Macci Tennis Academy in Boca Raton, FL. My job entailed printing Mr. Macci's famous inspirational quotes on large vinyl banners that would hang all over the academy. While reading quotes like \"BELIEVING IS MAGIC\", \"PRESSURE IS MY BEST FRIEND\", and \"HIT THE BALL SO HARD THAT YOU GIVE IT BRAIN DAMAGE\" (a quote of my own rejected by Mr. Macci, who made me destroy the banner immediately and reimburse the academy the $49.97 cost of printing) was like attending a $100k per year elite academy unto itself, the financials of the job didn't pay much on account of it being an unpaid internship. So, to scratch up some coin for a new can of balls and food, I began writing novelizations of popular tennis television adverts of the era for those who preferred to read about, rather than watch, the newest product offerings from the biggest brands in tennis. And while I vastly overestimated the size and interest of this particular tennis audience, in honor of the first Portland Tennis Courterly of 2024, I've graciously dipped into my archives to re-release the novelization of what I consider to be the finest tennis advert of all time: Nike's game-changing and very real 1990 TV commercial AGASSI'S ROCK & ROLL TENNIS CAMP. Enjoy!

CHAPTER 1: AN UNLIKELY HERO

Andre Kirk Agassi couldn't help but fear for his life. It was 1990, the cusp of a new millennium, and tennis was quickly becoming the world's number one bloodsport. In today's world, people all but demanded rock n' roll with their tennis, and young Andre was their messiah.

Even though his 20-year-old lips had yet to touch his first legal drink of alcohol, nor had his heart (also age 20) experienced the soaring heights and crushing pains of true love, he was once again fighting for his life at ROCK & ROLL TENNIS CAMP, the post-apocalyptic challenge court of death featuring quintessential California rock band Red Hot Chili Peppers. A truly harrowing event coordinated simply for the delight of their overlords - Nike, Inc.

But even with the reaper rapping upon his door, Andre exuded nothing less than carefree, cool calm. After all, image is everything. The rules were simple: survive as long as you can battling upon the killing court while Flea and the gang play a live show for a stadium of screaming funk-punk/tennis fans. Andre methodically did that thing where you spin the racquet horizontally on one finger, which is really hard to do, in an attempt to enter the flow state. One thousand 1200-watt spotlights illuminated the concrete and steel grating of the modern-day gladiator arena around him.

Atop the white, wooden monolith of the umpire chair sat none other than Red Hot Chili Peppers frontman Anthony Kiedis. He did not have a shirt on. Next to him, as always, was Flea, wearing a white Stetson cowboy hat and pants made of various stuffed animals. He, too, was without a shirt. Making eye contact with Andre and, like a quality questionnaire, they began with a question: \"Wanna play rock and roll tennis?\"

Turning to face them with stony resolve and a multi-print Nike Challenge Court headband accessory that most likely held a hairpiece topper in place, Andre smirked. A single gold triangle pendant dangled from his left ear. \"Let's dance.\"

CHAPTER 2: LET’S DANCE

Anthony Kiedis and Flea (real name Michael Balzary) screamed as a cacophony of elite tennis and rock & roll fusion exploded forth. While the funky monks orchestrated roiling chaos upon a stage, a screaming crowd watched in anarchic ecstasy as Andre found himself in the battle of his life. Backhand, backhand, forehand, another backhand. He sent the onslaught of balls right back at his unseen opponent with equal verve and ferocity. A frenzied Flea could hardly control himself. \"Hit the ball as LOUD AS YOU CAN,\" he shouted as a battle mantra, contorting his face into a grotesque mask for exclamation.

Another backhand. And another. Yet another backhand. Andre was smashing a surprising amount of backhands, most likely because it made his radical new Nike Challenge Court tee in the neon green colorway really pop.

On stage, Anthony Kiedis whipped his flowing hair around and around as if to say, \"Gaze upon the glory of my natural hair, world, for you will find no hairpiece toppers here.\"

CHAPTER 3: BLOOD SUGAR SEX MAGIK

\"LIVE for you fans!\"

The words had barely escaped Anthony Kiedis' lips before he leapfrogged over a bass-slapping Flea, sending himself six feet into the air above the stage. Andre wasn't the only one with formidable athletic prowess. Oh, and RHCP guitarist John Frusciante and drummer Chad Smith were also there on stage, but just in the background. No close-ups. They were basically there because without the full band playing together, the entire idea of a quasi-futuristic warehouse tennis match battle in the middle of a punk rock show wouldn't make a lick of sense.

Andre charged forward to the net and attacked the open court with a textbook backhand volley. His incredible footwork only made better by the neon green of his built-in compression shorts, available now from the Nike Challenge Court line of apparel. The crowd went wild.

CHAPTER 4: BREAK(ING) POINT

Each backhand burned. Every step felt like it could be his last. Andre didn't know how much longer he could keep this fight going. Could this be the final match for The Las Vegas Kid?

Sensing his struggle, Anthony Kiedis and Flea proclaimed the pervading ethos of our era in a last-ditch attempt to rally Andre: \"Never, never, NEVER sign with a bogus label!\"

That was all Andre needed. A new energy filled him with the power of one thousand Gil Waters running through his veins. With every step, Andre's Swoosh emblazoned crew socks provided sweat-wicking capabilities, allowing him to tear up the court in his neon green Nike Air Tech Challenge III tennis shoes (suggested retail $69.99).

The battle reached a fever pitch. While the Peps rampaged the stage, so did Andre on the court. Smashing guitars, smashing forehands, running circles around the opponent, running circles around the drums. The line between championship tennis and rebellious youth blurred into a single ethos: sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll tennis.

With Flea's plea echoing in his mind, Andre ran around another backhand, set up a forehand down the line, and hit the ball as loud as he could. Winner. Game. Set. Match. He had vanquished his opponent, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers had put on one hell of a show. He dropped his racquet and looked to the sky as if speaking to God himself. \"Any questions?\"

CHAPTER 5: LOVE MEANS NOTHING

Anthony Kiedis, Flea, John Frusciante, Chad Smith, and Andre held each other and cried. The memories of today's events would take weeks to fully process. \"Hell, grown men aren't supposed to cry,\" Chad Smith said, struggling to swallow his emotions, \"It just ain't right.\" Andre smiled. \"You're wrong, Chad Smith. For the true measure of a man does not lie in the strength of his muscles but in the strength of his feelings.\" Chad Smith let out a guttural sob in relief.

Bidding the band goodbye, an exhausted Andre Agassi walked off the court holding not just a victory, but a new lease on life. And through it all - all the danger, all the drama, all the near-death experiences - a single thought remained:

Just do it.

THE END

(Find the entire spring ‘91 Nike Challenge Court collection at a tennis pro shop near you.)

$\"\"$

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