What I would be thinking if I were John McEnroe before playing a match overseen by an umpire who knew I had slept with his wife.

You cannot be serious.

Of all the goddamn umpires on tour, I get him. There’s no way this is a coincidence. Everyone knows what happened. How could they not? It was all over page 6 for weeks. Stern even conned me into talking about it on-air. Then there was her memoir. Hell, anyone who doesn’t know is a Class A Moron.

Fuck. There must be a conflict of interest here or something. I mean honestly, how do they expect me to play in front of this guy when every time a fan screams my name all he’s going to be thinking about is how his wife did the same thing?

I wonder if she’s here today?

Oh, that sly bastard. I know what he’s up to. He requested this. He told them he’s over it; he’s gone through months of therapy and has moved on; there’s no animosity; he’s simply doing his job. But in reality it’s all just a ploy so he can exact revenge on me. Not that I can blame him. But there are other ways to go about it. I mean this is my career we’re talking about. Sure, I may have thrown a wrench into his marriage but over 50% of marriages end in divorce, so there’s a good chance he was going to get dumped anyway. Yeah. That makes sense. Hey, maybe as a gesture of goodwill, I’ll him give Tatum’s number. Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. And people say I’m an asshole.

Okay, I think we’re good here. Now, back to business. This is just another match John. Just another day on the old the hard court. You’ve just got to go out there and play your game like nothing’s wrong, like nothing’s bothering you.

Who am I kidding? This is going to be a disaster. Look at him sitting up there in his little fucking umpire’s chair acting all high and mighty. I can already hear that stupid accent of his, “Out. Out. Double fault. Out.” I know he’s just dying to make a terrible call so that I’ll go all Mac and freak out on him.

Well I’m not going to do that today. No sir.

You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to zing a few warm-up shots past his scrotum-like head, fake an injury then get drunk and call his wife. Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.

But what if he thinks I backed out because he intimidates me? I’m not going out like that. I don’t want to come off as a pussy.

OH! I know. I’ll protest the match. Yeah. I’ll play up the whole conflict thing. He won’t see that coming. Then it will just be him and me in a room with a few ATP suits. And I’ll totally have those yuppies eating out of my hand. I’ll be like, “I’m Johnny Mac, former number 1 ranked player in the world, and he’s Uli Von fucking Trapenbutom. What the hell kind of name is that anyway? Greenlandian? Danish? Whatever. Nobody cares. I put assess in the seats. He’s just an ump–and a lousy one at that. People pay to see me not watch him make the wrong call on match point.” And that will be that. Then I’ll get drunk and call his wife.

Who am I kidding? I can’t walk away from this match. I can’t keep avoiding this little runt in public. I live for confrontation. I’ve just got to grow my sack back and take care of business. For God’s sake, I’m tennis’ original bad boy. I’m a Hall of Famer who won 7 Grand Slams. I was in 30 Rock and Mr. Deeds–I’m fucking famous. So what if I did his wife. She’s hot. And totally out of his league. He had to know this was going to happen sooner or later. So why should I feel bad?

Okay, here’s the game plan Johnny Mac. Just go out there and play your usual game. Hit him up with a little serve and volley action. Give your fans a show. Then, when fucko decides to make a horseshit call, calmly walk over and make him lean down from that ridiculous high chair he’s perched in and, oh this is going to be so sweet, whisper to him, “Just so you know, I Von trapped her the bottom–twice.” Oh yeah. You are one smooth operator John Patrick McEnroe Jr.

Tags: 30 Rock, asshole, ATP, bad boy, class A moron, divorce, Grand Slam, Hall of Fame, John McEnroe, Mr. Deeds, page 6, pussy, Tatum O'Neal