Services for Nick Shultz, Sunday, September 8, 2 p.m. - Coronado Tennis Center

NICK SHULTZ
1948-2013

     Nick Shultz died last week following a brief battle with kidney cancer. He was 65. Services will take place on the tennis court, at the Coronado Tennis Center, Sunday, September 8, at 2 p.m. Everyone is encouraged to come down and share Nick’s favorite foods – guacamole and chips, and Coke Classics – and hear a few good Nick stories.

     Nick led many lives in that one body. He was an accomplished free diver and fisherman; he surfed the big waves of Hawaii’s North Shore; he played more tennis than any three people I know; he taught tennis to thousands and strung as many racquets; and he brought the teachings of Transcendental Meditation to hoards of young people struggling to escape the drug scene of the ‘60s and ‘70s. He was tall and good looking … something between a Robert Redford and a Nick Nolte.

     Nicky Shultz was one of those people I couldn’t get enough of. My first sight of him was jumping out of an old, gray VW bus parked along Ocean Blvd, at Central Beach, circa 1968. The side doors flew open, and out leaped Nick amidst a cloud of smoke. “Hey Dude,” he said, nearly knocking me over.” Years later I reminded him of that. “No dude,” he said, “I wasn’t smoking pot with those guys. I was telling them about the virtues of TM (Transcendental Meditation) and how they could get high without drugs.”

     He was years ahead of me along the path to enlightenment. I started meditating in 1970. Nick was there when I came out of my initiation with Beulah Smith. He ate one of my oranges and gave me a big hug. We were best friends from that moment on.

     Over the decades we surfed every kind of wave, in every kind of condition. We hit tennis balls in every condition as well – millions of tennis balls. We lost to some shitty teams, and we beat some good teams. Go figure. Once, while playing in the finals of the Coronado Home Federal Tournament, we were, all four players, at the net in a vicious exchange of volleys. We were a set up and winning the match. The ball was snapping back and forth and suddenly Nick walked away from the point. I hit two more exchanges before losing the point.

     As I turned around, Nicky was walking slowly towards a butterfly that had landed behind us on the court. He bent down, gently scooped the butterfly up on his racquet, and then walked carefully to the bench on the sidelines where he deposited a presumably grateful butterfly.

     He turned around all smiles. I’m sorry to say that I yelled at him that day - uttered a few carelessly chosen expletives. We lost the match. But, if I ever doubted it for a moment, which I didn’t, I knew then what a sweet soul Nick Shultz had. There are none sweeter.

     He was never afraid to laugh at himself, no matter how crazy the event, or how close to death he had come. Although a terrific athlete, pride wasn’t something he wore on his vest, like some would a medal. Nick remained humble his entire life. He never said a bad word about anyone, and he never bragged on himself.

     I could go on about surfing with whales at the Shipwreck, or in the middle of a feeding frenzy of hammerhead sharks at the Outlet; about Nick living in someone’s dog house on the North Shore when he ran out of money; or his tennis adventures with champions like Rod Laver, Tracy Austin, Evonne Goolagong, Marita Redondo or Terry Holliday.

     Nick graduated from Coronado High School in 1966. His lusts were simple. He loved wooden Jack Kramer tennis racquets, the music of Arthur Lee and Love Da Capo, red clay tennis courts and Coke Classics.

     I lived a few lives too. In 1982 I was a tennis writer. Ben Press and I owned “Your Racquet,” a well-written but horribly misspelled newspaper for the racquet sports. Before the Davis Cup at La Costa in 1982, the promoter found out at the last minute he would have to pick up and babysit the international Davis Cup trophy – a four-tiered hunk of silver engraved with the names of every great tennis player who ever lived.

     He hired me to pick it up in an armored truck and store it in a bank vault for a week, “under armed guard during transport,” until the matches began between the US (defending champs) and India. I signed the contract but bullshitted my way around the little details, with the help of Nick and our pal Barry Evans – Barry was then the SD Padres’ third baseman and a major tennis junky.

     Barry put on an outfit resembling a Brinks guard; we backed his truck up to the platform, and heisted what is arguably the most famous trophy in the world. We took it to my home in Coronado, unpacked the crates and assembled it in my backyard.

     I filled the bowl with champagne and Nick and I indulged in the bubbly, with pieces of silver plating floating on the top. We posed with the Davis Cup, memorized the names and famous battles fought in its legend, fondled the damn thing, and treated it as our personal tennis shrine that week. In the end, like two stupid kids (which we were) Nick and I carved our initials on the underside of the bowl where no one would see, but alongside initials we believed to be some of the most legendary players in history.

     The pictures you see in the video link below are from our photo shoot that day in my back yard. The song on the link, if you can open it, is from the Jimmy Cliff movie, “The Harder They Come.” Nick and I traveled to the La Paloma Theatre a dozen times to see that film. And, each time we sat through “Black Orpheus” to get to it. This one’s for you Nick. I miss you old buddy. To his nephews Nico and Chris, know that your uncle loved you more than life itself. May Angels surround you old friend …

http://https//www.dropbox.com/s/6qe5pqapqilbsmd/Nick%20Shultz-Display.m4v