PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

Game, set, match. I love that tennis talk. Last weekend was a blast

for tennis fans in Newport-Mesa Land with the Success Magazine Champions

Tour making a stop at the Newport Beach Tennis Club, lead by the always

energetic John McEnroe.

For those of you who, like myself, are not tennis-literate, the

Champions Tour is the rough equivalent of golf’s Senior PGA Tour. The

partner-charity for this stop was Kinship Center, a great organization

that finds adoptive and foster families for kids throughout California.

There was a dinner and auction to benefit Kinship Center on Saturday

night, which we had the pleasure of attending. There were some tour

players -- Yannick Noah, Pat Cash, John Lloyd and Henri LeConte, in

addition to McEnroe. There were even a few Hollywood celebs -- Rich

Little, Eric Braden (“The Young and the Restless”) and James McDaniel,

who was the lieutenant on “NYPD Blue” for years and years, and is a great

guy, I might add.

The mayor of the great city of Newport Beach, Gary Adams, was there in

all his mayor-ness, and it turned out that Gary’s wife, Birgit, and Pat

Cash were actually close friends.

Being around tennis and all its trappings for a short time was great

fun, even for a non-aficionado such as myself. It’s fast and stylish and

exciting.

I was distracted, though, by two aspects of the game that I have

always found puzzling. One is a quirk, the other a mystery. The whole

thing about being really, really quiet is just a quirk. But the business

of how tennis is scored is truly a mystery. So let’s deal with it, but

remember, we have to be very, very quiet. Ssshhh!

The same nonsense applies to golf -- a game with which, unlike tennis,

I am quite familiar, except for how to play it. To be fair, the “quiet”

thing is just as silly in golf as it is in tennis. I remain confident

that someone, someday, will step forward and explain it to me before my

time on this earth is done. If that person happens to be you, please see

me at your earliest convenience.

Baseball, football and basketball players can do all the baseball,

football and basketball things they have to do -- some of which can

render them permanently paralyzed or permanently dead -- with tens of

thousands of fans screaming and shrieking at them just yards away. But

when the tennis player lofts his fuzzy yellow ball in the air for a

serve, everybody has to be really, really quiet, or else he can’t do it.

Under the gaze of 60,000 people howling like wounded grizzlies,

baseball players can stand 63 feet away from all 6 feet, 10 inches of

Randy Johnson, who is about to throw a rock-hard ball at them at 100

miles per hour. But at a tennis match, you have to be really, really

quiet.

In addition to shrieking fans, a quarterback does his work while a

pack of snarling, 300-pound defenders rush toward him, waving their arms

and screaming for his blood. But if someone sneezes while David Duval

swings at the small white ball lying motionless on the grass, he can’t do

it. He’ll break his swing and glare at the gallery, trying to find the

offending nose.

Realistically speaking, there is no explanation other than the simple

fact that in each sport it’s a matter of tradition. But who came up with

tennis scoring and what on earth were they thinking? Fifteen, 30 -- and

just when you think you have it figured out -- 40. Was it a joke? Too

much wine? A little bit of tennis humor? I’ve got to know.

There are two explanations bandied about for that loopy “15, 30, 40”

sequence. Both are unsatisfactory, and one is downright bizarre. May we

have the “bizarre” envelope first, please. Thank you so much.

At some unknown time, in an unknown place, unknown tennis players kept

score with a clocklike device. After each point, the clock was advanced

by a quarter turn, 15, 30, etc. When 60, or twelve o’clock, was reached,

the game was over. A thoroughly charming explanation, but what am I,

talking to the wall here? What the heck happened to 45?

If it was “15, 30, 45, game,” tennis scorers would never have to deal

with me again. But as long as it’s “15, 30, 40, game,” we deserve

something better then the “big clock” theory, thank you so much.

The second explanation takes a more philosophical approach. Tennis

originated in the 12th century in France. Its name, in fact, is a

derivative of the French verb “tenir” -- “to hold.” Those very early

players would shout “Tenez!” just before serving, literally meaning

“Hold!,” but the intent being “Here it comes!”

By the way, the widely held belief that the tennis term “love,”

meaning “nothing,” is a derivative of “l’oeuf,” meaning “egg” or “goose

egg” or “zero” is clever, but untrue. The original intent was quite

literally “love” in the sense of a true “amateur” or “lover” -- i.e.,

someone who plays only for the love of the sport.

Where were we? Now I remember -- the mystery of 40. Numerology was a

major league big deal in medieval times. People were bonkers about

numbers and signs and omens, and whether the numbers in your life were

“good” numbers or “bad” numbers. Sixty was considered a very solid or

complete number, much the same as we think of 100 -- a basic number, easy

to work with, etc., etc.

Again, the original idea was “15, 30, 45, game,” but 45 was changed to

40 because 40 is a “good” number, while 45 is a “bad” number. Oh, like I

didn’t know that. So just because some medieval scorekeeper thinks the

earth is going to open up and giant serpents are going to drag him down

to the great void if he says “45,” we’re stuck with a goofy scoring

system for tennis a thousand years later. I say it’s Moderns -- 40,

Medievals -- love. I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays.

He may be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.