When I was a kid, a tennis ball was the small, muddy thing you threw to your dog to kill time in the backyard while waiting for the barbecue.

It wasn't until I was in high school that this once child-friendly object became a vehicle for the more questionable impulses of my youthful vandalism.

For example, a tennis ball dipped in paint or mud is a great way to deface a garage door. If you really hate someone, use paint. If you are simply mad at them because they T.P.'d your house last weekend, use mud. (Pre-Thursday night, the only other thing I knew about tennis was that Andre Agassi was a tool.)

However, it seems that in this era of armor-piercing sniper bullets, high-velocity cruise missiles and bullet trains, just about any small, seemingly harmless object can be used as a de facto missile. The recipe is simple:

One small object.

Add tremendous kinetic energy over a short amount of time.

Serve fresh.

So I found myself sitting in the cavernous yet somehow intimate Helfaer Tennis Stadium, wishing I'd brought my flak jacket and helmet.

Tennis — the sport of kings, celebrities and the French Revolution — is scary.

Not that I didn't have complete faith in the obviously talented tennis players that swatted the green-yellow menace back and forth. I had no reason to doubt them; the ball passed my corner of the stands many times during the course of the match, and not once did it show any inclination to plant a wound on my cheek (he wrote, hedging his bets against future appearances at the Helfaer Stadium).

It's just that the ball moves so damned fast; so very, very fast.

As I crouched behind my press notebook (the only cover available), I learned that tennis Marquette-style is a little different from the ESPN Classic match you changed the channel on yesterday. For one thing, the moans-to-grunts ratio is lower. In your average professional match, there is a solid moan-to-grunt ration of 9:2. In the Marquette match that I observed, it was much closer to 3:4.

Another thing I learned: Marquette tennis fans aren't the timid bunch you see applauding meekly at Wimbeldon. Midway through the No. 1 women's doubles match on Thursday night, the fans were yelling "Callaaan!" at sophomore Callan Smith and conversing with the players in Spanish. I also learned several new Spanish "phrases of frustration" to yell whenever I stub my toe, courtesy of freshman Maria Calbeto.

Also, I learned that tennis is much like politics: things move very fast, and it's hard to keep track of who is winning.

Like politics, if you're going to watch two sides compete, make sure you bring your flak jacket.

This article appeared in The Marquette Tribune on Feb. 8 2005.,”Brian O'Connor”

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