A while back we reviewed the book “Slammin'” by Marcus Paul Cootsona. We totally loved the book and now Marcus has surprised us with a second book called “Rubber Match”. Marcus contacted us at TSF Tennis and asked if we were interested in doing a review of Rubber Match and ofcourse we said yes! You can buy Rubber Match on Amazon.com
About Marcus Paul Cootsona
Marcus Paul Cootsona is a tennis professional, lapsed playwright and the author of Occam’s Racquet – 12 Simple Steps to Smarter Tennis. Three times ‘Tennis Specialty Retailer of the Year’, a member of the Wilson Advisory Staff, and a contributor to Inside Tennis magazine, tennis is his life. He lives in Northern California with his wife and two sublime, ridiculous dogs. He is not a former Navy SEAL.
Rubber Match synopsis
Fifty-nine year-old Atherton tennis teaching pro and family man Wally Wilson won the 2011 U.S. Open behind 250 mph serves and a timely disqualification, and was promptly banned from professional tennis. Two years later, Wally is picked to play Davis Cup, framed for stealing a Dutch masterwork, and hunted by obsessive-compulsive Mounties. There goes his nap.
Rubber Match excerpt
Three clotted freeways and one toney toll road in the rear view, Wally Wilson and his wife Danielle were about an hour out of LA heading south on I-5 at or near the posted on a hot August day. Their 2003 Honda Odyssey EX minivan with onboard navigation and a hundred and sixty grand on the meter was paddling along like a salt-whipped sloop, determined to stay afloat purely out of age and stubbornness.
Seventeen year-old Deuce Wilson shared the backseat with their red merle Australian Shepard, Rod Laver the Dog, and was palming, finger-rolling, and vanishing Susan B’s. A lone playing card floated benignly in the air to his right.
Deuce had been quiet since Bixby Knolls, but teenage wheels were turning.
Just past the San Onofre nuclear plant he spoke.
“Why can’t I be an autodidact?” he asked, in his almost-Joseph-Gordon-Levitt voice. The JGL, incidentally, from Looper not Brick.
“An auto-deduct?” said Wally.
“An autodidact,” he said. “A self-taught person.”
“Oh, an auto didact.”
“Yeah,” he said, his resonant pipes shaking the dashboard.
“Right,” said Wally. “I must have been thinking about freshman tuition.”
Danielle looked over at Wally and narrowed her gaze into the subtlest of approving side-glances.
Deuce let out a courtesy snortlet. “Why can’t I?” he said.
“Well, first of all,” said his mom, “because just knowing an expression is not a proof of concept.”
“And,” said Wally over his right shoulder, “it’s because –“
“It’s because,” said Danielle, snagging the falling baton, “we didn’t send you to the Atherton Academy to skip college.”
“Exactly,” said Wally, thankful for the spousal mind reading and the quick backup.
“But I don’t think I need to go to college,” said Deuce. “What’s the use for someone like me?”
“For you or anyone,” said his mom, “greater breadth of knowledge, a deeper understanding of the world –“
“The experience of doing it,” said his dad. “Connections.”
“And that too,” said his mom.
“But Dad, you went to Stanford. How did that help you become a tennis teaching pro?”
That was his son. Always advancing the argument and his own cause. “Now, let’s not make this about me,” said Wally.
“I just mean,” said Deuce to his dad, as he rolled two coins in parallel streams up and down his digits, “You’re a tributary guy. Not some boring main-streamer. The BA sounds great if you want to be a low-level wank at some mid-value multi. But I’ve set my sights a little higher. I’m headed for Vegas!”