I would push, and urge you to dedicate your life to your craft, but you know, deep inside, I don’t even know if that is the right thing to do. Sometimes I get so absorbed in my own fairy tale that I try to get all my friends to take this same leap of faith with me. The thing is… this is a perilous journey and I think I’ve hurt a lot of people along the way, maybe even damaged ties that time may never be able to repair. Publishing a great work, in my real opinion, is not the end all. In my gut, I feel that there is more to life than that, that your existence here should not merely be summed up by books you’ve written or art you’ve painted, but more of the type of person you have made yourself to be.  Sometimes I’ve even wondered to myself, if the world, if mankind, deserves all that we are capable of.

In college, I was really huge into Marxism. I was known by my peers and teachers (even the principal) as the Young Marxist. This Marxist quote, I’m not sure who it was by (some no name fella), has stuck with me till this day, and to me is the core of all Marxism. It goes, “the ways in which man choose to grapple with the urgent necessity of their survival will determine all that they do.”

Writing has never been my life. And it never will be. Writing this book is merely the mode I’ve elected to urgently grapple with my survival, the vehicle I’ve assigned to bring me closer to the things I really love (my family, travel, learning new languages, learning the piano, helping others, helping others achieve their dreams… I have a whole laundry list) My point is this. I think you merely have to find the most tolerable way to get you to where you’d like to go. And most people don’t do that. I believe that the real journey lies in finding your calling. Once you’ve found it, everything just falls into place. In a Paulo Coelho sort of way, the universe conspires to get you there. Maybe I’ve picked the right path. Maybe not. Only time will tell I guess. Enjoyed the journey though. And that’s what matters.

It started as an idea, that became a movie script, that flared into a book, so that it could be turned into a movie. Will this go down as a wasted year? Maybe, but the fruits of it shall not. All I know is this, that once the book is published and out of my hands, regardless of whether it’s successful, it is out there… for someone to pick up and say, hey, this could be made into a great movie. For every breath forth, maybe even to my last, this book of mine, my baby, shall be to me, my favourite maybe.

This is a story about a person I met over 10 years back, whose story I had posted on my website jeremychin.com (which I’ve not updated for eons).

I became tennis friends with Art in the early stages of him becoming homeless. He was too proud to ever admit that fact to me, and I chose never to ask him about it, to keep his pride intact. After our first meeting, his appearance got progressively more grimy. I truly became aware of his situation after noticing that he always wore the exact same clothes, and always had to get his tennis racquet from around the corner of where I would pick him up (the only thing around that corner was a shopping cart behind a dumpster). Art was a former tennis champ who lost everything he had on the track.

At 6:30 one Saturday morning, I got a phone call from Art who insisted I take him to the La Jolla Tennis Championships. I shot him a stern ‘No’. And then he played the Farah Fawcett card. When we arrived at the tournament, he did as he promised. He sat me courtside… beside Farah Fawcett. Don’t ask me how he swung it. Unfortunately, I knew close to nothing about Farah, except that she looked pretty hot when she posed for Playboy, not the ideal conversation starter. So we never spoke.

Later on, Art introduced me to former world greats, Pancho Segura (creator of the two-handed forehand) and Vic Sexias (former Wimbledon and US Open champion). Art himself used to be a sparring partner for Jimmy Connors, and played alongside the likes of Bobby Riggs. I lost contact with Art after I moved to LA. Whenever I’m down in San Diego I still keep an eye out for him.

~.~.~.~.~.~

Today, I got an email from a stranger. She had read my story online.

I met Art Tilton in a dive bar in Downtown SD.  Sports was on the bar TV – and he strikes up a conversation about tennis… long story short, my friend and I googled him  and he is now “coaching” us on Tuesday nights at my friends court in Scripps Ranch.

You will be interested to know he is working sporadically, and gets some Social Security, along with a minor retirement check from his days as a clerk at Del Mar race track.  He is OFF the wagon and we try very hard to keep him on the straight and narrow.  He rents a room in a sprawling home with large family that also provides two meals a day, for $350 month.  He is  planning to have a long needed knee surgery soon- we’ll see.

Our “Art Project” has had some minor successes. Our serve has improved, Art has a few more $$ in his pocket, and he appears to really appreciate the attention we give him.  We have been disappointed and annoyed at times too.

Just thought you might like to know – that we saw your notes on Art when we initially googled him, ball rolled from there.

Suzanne Kirkland

~.~.~.~.~.~

This was my response to her.

Suzanne,
You don’t know how your email just made my day. I had so many interesting stories about Art, which I still tell till this day; of how he always knew where the coldest and cheapest beer could be had, and where to go for free coffee in the morning (some Strip club if I remember right…owned by a really old guy who called himself Radio). Art also once snuck me onto a championship court to hit some balls, so I could experience a little of what it was like playing in the big leagues. The crisp resonance of the ball as it echoed through the stadium still lives in my head.

A rather well-to-do gentleman once walked up to me and thanked me for being a friend to Art. He gave me his card and told me that if Art needed any help, that I should contact him. Unfortunately, I lost contact with Art after I moved away… but I am utterly glad that someone else is now watching over him.

Art seems to have a lot of friends who transcienced in and out of his life, so I doubt he remembers me. Please tell him though, that someone, now halfway across the planet, remembers him, and thanks him for making his world a little more colourful.

This has once been said to me, and now I will say it to you. Thank you for being a friend to Art.

Truly yours,
Jeremy

This week has been complete tits. It started on Monday when we got a call saying Sophie’s Dad had a heart attack. It’s amazing how your world can just stop in a blink of an eye, how all the trivial little bits of your day-to-day suddenly becomes inconsequential, replaced by a much larger and more real issue, that issue being the life of a loved one that hangs in the balance. Sophie is 3 hours away, seeing to things that need seeing to.  And me?  Well I’m helping to hold the fort on the home front, to care for Oliver and to fill the void left by her absence. Being a Dad has taught me many things. Thought I’d share this nugget. Looking at Oliver sleep in my bed this morning I asked myself this, “How does someone so small, take up the whole bed?” I swear, it’s the little things that make you smile.