An avid tennis fan weighs whether his fascination is sliding into delectable obsession.
Not to be presumptuous, but I hereby christen the first decade of the 21st century the Time of Rehab.
Hollywood stars, politicians, and athletes are marching through treatment programs for an ever-widening array of "addictions." Not far off, I predict, are treatment plans for failure, rehab centers for the overly competitive, and multistep recovery programs for excessive candor or obfuscation, depending upon which side of that line you habitually fall.
So, as I flew recently into Palm Springs, I started wondering about myself. Was the thing that brought me here, into this desert of dry gullies, palm trees, and a street called Frank Sinatra Drive, veering out of control?
It seemed harmless enough. I was here for a deep dunk into big-time tennis, a sport I have loved for almost all my life as both a player and fan. Which brings me to Indian Wells BNP Paribas Open, one of the world's major tennis tournaments, boasting the largest attendance of any tennis event save the four Grand Slams. I was here to "cover" the tournament as a reporter, which I did with unblinking attention and devotion. But let's be real. I didn't to cover the tournament. I did it by choice.
So for five full days I woke up, took a bus to the splendid Indian Wells facility, and didn't return home for about 10 hours.
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