TENNIS: Vietnam delays tennis aspirations (part one)

By George Soules Sports Central Columnist

This week, the staff at Sports Central will start a series of articles based on their JUCO tennis experiences. First, out of school and out of luck, George Soules tells of how he faced having to fight in Vietnam, but got a tennis scholarship at a junior college just in the nick of time. Then, "Coach Tom" Kosinski begins a weekly dialogue with his misadventures as a JUCO coach. This week you'll meet the men of Ocean County College tennis.

Sometime after the Tet Offensive but before the Cambodian bombings, I was drafted into the U.S. Army. I was living in Washington, D.C., and had become eligible for duty by dint of having dropped out of college for the second time in the space of one year. The standard "greetings" letter from the government arrived at a townhouse shared with three lawyers, one of them a basketball agent and later general manager of the NBA's Miami Heat. Boxer Muhammad Ali had recently elected not to step forward when the moment came for him to be officially inducted, but I didn't have anything that dramatic planned. My first thought was of fleeing to Canada.

Like most young adults of my class, a 11-S deferment was the passport to remaining safe in the U.S.A., where one could go about preparing for life via a college education without much thought to those of your own age fighting, and dying, in Southeast Asia. In any event, in those days, I cared more about tennis than anything else, let alone a distant and unpopular war. Though not a conscientious objector in the strict religious sense, bearing arms for any army on the face of the earth was anathema to me. So I was prepared to go to great lengths to get out of the draft after I lost my college deferment.

That prospect was severely compromised by a lottery number of 132 at a time when the Nixon administration had stepped up the war and the Pentagon was grabbing all draft-eligible males with numbers up to 180. A hearing before the local draft board, appealing a "hardship" case as the sole surviving son in my family, had not gone well. And when I went in for the standard Army physical complaining about bad allergies and an incipient "psychotic" episode, those pretexts, too, failed to impress. My status was soon determined: 1-A Reporting to Fort Dix, New Jersey loomed just a few days away, and getting back into school was the only lawful way to avoid that impossible-sounding fate. The lawyer-agent living with me suggested that he could give the athletic director at the College of Southern Idaho (CSl) a call to see if they needed any tennis players. Truth to tell, this community college, located in the sleepy town of Twin Falls, was renowned not for tennis, but for its basketball prowess, a perennial contender for the national junior college title. My roommate had had a big hand in their success, recruiting local D.C. high school and playground talent and sending them out West.

The AD at CSI was enthusiastic over the phone, but the process of gaining approval for the scholarship would take time; I desperately needed to be able to postpone my imminent induction. That's when my roommate asked to see the letter from the draft board in relation to my hearing. When I said nothing of the sort had arrived, he told me to head down to their office immediately to demand my rights. They had obviously rejected my case, he explained, but due process had not been served and I could win a reprieve based on a technicality. It was worth a try.

Downtown, there was an interminable wait while the board's secretary shuffled across the hall to confer with some official, returning with the message that a letter informing me of the board's decision would soon be mailed out. My induction was postponed, she added, granting me thirty precious days in which to get into school. In the end, all the necessary paperwork was introduced in time to avert induction, and CSI went on to offer me a scholarship that included tuition, books, a room in an athletic dorm, and $500 per semester. It sounded like a good deal, the only problem being how to get out there. In view of the bleak state of my personal finances, crossing the nation in the dead of winter in a 1962 VW "Bug" convertible (a vehicle infamous for its anemic heating system) was the only viable option. The school's authorities gave me six days to arrive and register; I would be cutting it very close.

Part Two: Misadventure and Her Mates

Look forward to the continuation of George's story in upcoming weeks. Tom will also continue to update us on his team's (mis)adventures. Stay tuned!

Article courtesy of Sports Central