Secret identity of the most famous Jerk in USTA league. Did you guys read the tennis mag article this month "A season on the Edge"? The author tells a story of a jerk he played in league. But he intentionally keeps the identity of the team and the player a secret to "protect the guilty". Well the secret is now out!! The team he is talking about is the Saw Mill Club in Westchester NY and the player he is talking about is Rich Callwood . How do I know?? Well all you have to do is plug in the authors name James Martin into the USTA website. Next you look up his matches in 4.5 league. There is only one match where his opponent defaulted and it was Rich Callwood of the Saw Mill Club. ( he mention in the article that his opponent defaulted and that it was 4.5 league). Call me Sherlock Holmes. Here is the article: Here is PART of the article: A Season on the Edge by James Martin League Tennis is fun, but it has a dark side. Just ask the author, who joined a U.S.T.A. team for the first time last year. (Names have been left out to protect the innocent -- and the guilty.) Competition warps the minds of men. grown men with families. Men with highfalutin-sounding jobs. Men, in other words, who should know better. There's no other way I can begin to explain the theater of the absurd that unfolded last spring during one of my USTA 4.5 league matches. I had just taken the court for the second singles against my opponent, a dapper Englishman with a yachtsman's tan. The trouble began when I was taking my warm-up serves. "Foot fault," my opponent said. "Excuse me?" "You're foot faulting." In my 25 years of playing tennis, I'd never been called for a foot fault during a match (I'm not saying I haven't crossed the all-important white line, but no one's taken me to task for doing it). And during warm-ups? I walked up to my service line. "Don't even think about it," I said. "Don't start." I returned to the baseline and hit another practice serve. "You're foot faulting," he said. "You can't do that." I had a strong suspicion why he was acting like this. Fifteen minutes earlier, I had been in the lounge watching my team's captain play his match. The Englishman was there, too, upset that my skipper was, in his word, "bullying" his opponent. Whatever the reality, it was clear both players were sniping at each other over line calls. My soon-to-be opponent inched closer to the glass and said to his friend standing nearby, "Look, he's foot faulting." He tried pointing this out to his player from behind the glass. He eventually walked onto the court, interrupted play, and accused my captain of foot faulting. Now, as I stood eyeballing my opponent, his motivation seemed clear. "Listen," I said. "I want to have a nice match. Whatever's going on over there" --I pointed to the other court--"leave it there. Let's not start this here." "Well, your captain started it," he said. My 8-year-old daughter could have constructed a better argument, but it left me with little place to go. The man spoke softly with a dignified air, a stark contrast to the nonsense he was spewing. The combination made him seem slightly sinister. As he pressed his point, he reminded me of a villain from a James bond movie, a diabolical blue blood hellbent on destroying 007. Unfortunately, his plot for revenge was being carried out on me. As we continued to argue, I grew agitated. I don't know why--maybe because I've never been in such a bizarre altercation, perhaps it was the negative vibes in the air--but something took hold of me. Possessed me. I went from the voice of reason to the voice of madness. "Look, if you're not going to play properly, let's take it outside," I said. "Take it outside?" Who did I think I was, Russell Crowe? Adrenaline had overwhelmed my internal editor. "Let's step outside," I repeated, before throwing in a "Don't [expletive] with me" for good measure. No, no one was going to win a sportsmanship award today. We walked back to our respective baselines. I can't speak for him, but I'm guessing he was shell-shocked after my outburst. He blasted his practice serves as hard as he could--right at me. He muttered that this was how you're supposed to serve, without foot faulting. Now he's giving me a tennis lesson? I thought. Oh, it was on! Risking a dislocated shoulder, I returned the favor by serving bullets back at him. Clearly, I'd lost my mind. By the time the match finally started, I had never been more fired up on a tennis court. And that's when things turned really weird. After breaking him to start the match, I prepared to serve. But he didn't have his racquet in the ready position. He stood there with one hand on his hip. I served the ball in. "Foot fault," he said, pointing to my feet and shaking his head disapprovingly. I was as dumbstruck as K-Fed in a library. "I'm taking the point," I shouted, and headed to the ad side. Another serve. He let that one go, too. That was 30-love in my book. Completely rattled, I double-faulted on the next point. Keep it together, I told myself. Serve underhand if you have to, just get the ball in! I was on the verge of hyperventilating by this point, and my arm felt like a lead pipe. But I was able to muscle my racquet up and over my head and meekly push two balls into the serve box, which he made no attempt to return. Two-love, me. My opponent looked toward his teammate in the lounge as if to say, "Can you believe this guy?" After he lost the first point of the next game, he walked to the sideline, grabbed his bag, and, without a word, walked off the court. "Where are you going?" I said. "Let's finish this." No response. My captain, still playing on an adjacent court, shouted, "Let him go." He knew that our team would get a win. This strange debacle would go down in the books as a simple default.