A San Diego tennis odyssey should both begin and end at Morley Field. This eucalyptus shaded corner of Balboa Park is a local tennis Mecca, and offers 25 of the finest, most immaculately clean courts in the city.

Morley Field is laid out in a rectangular design, running east-west. The red and green courts are built on at least three different tiers as an accommodation to the natural contours of the land.

Tennis isn't a fad or status symbol here — it is a way of life. It is played at all levels of skill, but always with the same intense enthusiasm.

You don't see Mercedes Benzs lining the streets, you see Volkswagens. How can yo support a Mercedes when you play tennis all day long?

The courts are public, but there is a certain sense of muted aristocracy about the place. you feel that you're trespassing at a private club and, in a sense, you are. Maybe it's the manicured lawns or maybe it's the plaques — God! you never saw so many monuments to so many people in your life. "Wilbur Folsom ... dedicated in appreciation,..." You step gingerly so as not to tread on someone's grave.

Right away you notice the young Turks in their 20s and 30s smartly attired in pastel yellows and blues — all looking like Robert Redford. They are the young lawyers and other professionals who have made it or nearly made it; and they play the game very well indeed, much as they conduct their lives — aggressively.

Everyone seems to know everyone and the atmosphere is relaxed and congenial. There is a lot of joking and exchanging of tennis gossip.

This day there is a nondescript looking collection of older men playing doubles on one of the western courts. Morley Field is, after all, public and you do get a rather curious assortment of talent and costume.

This particular group is blissfully oblivious to anyone's sartorial standards. Their potpourri of dress includes long pants, multicolored sports shirts, tee shirts, Bermuda shorts, blue socks and a baseball cap. It is the most incongruous assemblage you could expect in your wildest nightmare and to make the asymmetry complete, one man is missing arm.

These are crafty old geese, though. What they lack in skill is compensated in guile and gamesmanship. "Here comes an ace," the receiver is warned. he gets a slow spinner instead. "Did anyone hear a let on that second serve — it distracted me," and so on.

South of these courts is the Maureen Connely Brinker Tennis Stadium which is an amphitheater hollowed out of the earth, surrounding a single court. A ball hit on this court resounds with a satisfying thump and makes you think you're good — most people who play here are.

It suggests the atmosphere of a shrine.

A novice wouldn't dream of desecrating it with imperfect efforts.

Today a small crowd of curious onlookers watch Frenchmen Jean Chanfreau, a player of international reputation, hitting there with one of his countrymen. Chanfreau, hoping to hone his game for the summer pro tour, has discovered San Diego weather and competition.

He is handsome, right out of the Louis Jordan-Alain Delon stamp. He strokes fluidly, effortlessly, placing his nuances where he will. A shot goes long and his Gallic basso reverberates in self-reproach. "Bugez les pieds!" From other courts an occasional ejaculation of joy or despair rises above the echoing tattoo of tennis balls — tennis is that kind of game.

Strolling east, you come upon the older section of the tennis complex. Here the crackled courts have been resurfaced more times than you can count. The old clubhouse of pre-World War II architecture stands dilapidated and deserted.

A cadaverous old man — he looks 100 — presses his face against the background netting of the fence and peers rapturously onto the court. The object of this avuncular pride is Marita Redondo, a smooth stroking local girl who started on the road to national recognition on these same courts.

Perfectly timed forehands and backhands, stroked with astonishing power, send a hapless opponent lunging and scrambling for balls just out of reach.

Watching this tall, delicate girl, you fight the peculiar sensation that she is somehow part of the court — some willowy, graceful thing sprung from its surface.

She is beaten by an overhead smash and the spell is broken. She is mortal.

The old man hasn't moved. Written on his creased face are reveries of other prodigies lovingly nurtured to full blossom — come and gone in only a twinkling.

Little Mo, Karen Hantze, others. It is the sort of scene that can make you weep — maybe out of pity, or love, or some sudden and profound understanding.

You at once recall watching an agonizingly close singles match played on these courts years ago. When the struggle was over you turned to the elderly spectator seated next to you and observed wisely "tennis is a lot like life," and he, without a trace of a smile on his face or irony in his voice replied, "No, it's not like life — it is life."