When the ball came off his fingertips, he knew he had thrown it just the way he wanted to. His momentum carried him in the direction of the line of scrimmage and he watched as Jonas, running full speed, raced under the ball at the KOP 25 yard line, gathered it into his arms, and cruised into the end zone.
Alex’s arms went into the air and he could feel his teammates pummeling him as they all ran downfield to congratulate Jonas.
“That’s the way to throw it, Goldie,” he heard Allison say, a phrase repeated by several others as they all high-fived their way down the field. The Chester Heights sideline had exploded, stunned by the suddenness of the touchdown—and by the quarterback who had thrown the pass. Alex knew he still had a silly grin on his face as everyone trotted to the sideline while the kicking team went in for the extra point.
Matt was waiting. He took his right hand off his crutches to give Alex a high five.
“I knew you could do it, Goldie,” he said. “I just knew it.”
Coach Gordon was right behind him.
“Was that an audible, Myers? It didn’t look like one from here.”
“No sir. I called it in the huddle.”
“Was that what I told you to call?”
“No sir,” Alex said, offering no excuse and waiting for the hammer to come down on his head.
“I called it,” Matt said. “I called it because I knew Alex could make the throw and we needed a quick score to change the momentum.”
Coach Gordon stared at his son, then at Alex as another roar went up from the Chester Heights sideline as the extra point went through, making it 17–7.
“We’ll discuss it after the game,” he said finally, turning and walking away.
Don’t miss
Stevie and Susan Carol covering
the U.S. Open Tennis Tournament
in Vanishing Act.
Excerpt copyright © 2006 by John Feinstein.
Published by Alfred A. Knopf Books for Young Readers.
4: NADIA SYMANOVA
“So, what’s the scouting report on Evelyn Rubin?” Bobby Kelleher asked. “I see she made Boo-Hoo Three cry.”
“Stevie’s in love with her,” Susan Carol reported.
“I am not!” Stevie said. “She’s pretty and she seemed nice. That doesn’t mean I’m in love. She can really play, though. Great ground strokes, and she’s fast.”
Susan Carol was grinning. “And a beautiful smile.”
“An older woman, huh, Stevie?” Kelleher said, smiling. Without giving Stevie a chance to respond, he gestured at the TV screen propped on the corner of his desk. “The match before Symanova out on Armstrong is just about over. If you guys want good seats, we probably ought to walk over there.”
“Do we have time to eat something?” Susan Carol said.
Kelleher shook his head. “No. If you want to eat, we probably won’t get into the press section.”
“I’m not that hungry,” Stevie said.
“That figures,” Susan Carol answered, rolling her eyes.
“Bud wants to come too,” Kelleher said. “In fact, he might have a sandwich or something—he’s always carrying food.”
Kelleher turned out to be right. Collins was more than happy to offer up a choice of sandwiches. Stevie and Susan Carol each grabbed one and quickly disposed of them. They grabbed cups of Coke and made their way back outside. The temperature had gone up at least ten degrees and the number of people appeared to have doubled. Kelleher led the way, with Stevie and Susan Carol behind him and Collins, hat pulled low over his head, right behind them. Even with the cap, people were constantly screaming Collins’s name. He answered everyone but kept moving, his hand on Stevie’s shoulder to make sure he stayed close to him.
“Gotta keep moving!” he said. “If Nadia’s boyfriend isn’t there when the match starts, she’ll be very upset.”
“Where? Who?” everyone kept asking.
“Right here in front of me,” Collins would reply. “Young Steven Thomas. Don’t you read the tabloids?”
Given that Symanova was three years older than Stevie and about a half-foot taller, the notion of them as an item was pretty outrageous. But such was the power of Bud that few fans seemed skeptical. One woman wearing a tennis dress even asked Stevie for his autograph. “Not right now,” Collins said. “After the match. He’s got his game face on.”
They made it to the entrance and walked under the stands to the far side, where a small sign with an arrow said MEDIA SEATING. They went up a short flight of steps and came out in a section that was almost directly behind the court—which was empty at the moment. Apparently the prior match had ended. The stands were almost full and there were no more than ten seats left in the media seating area, which Stevie estimated had about 150 seats.
“Just in time,” Kelleher said.
A security guard stood at the top of the steps checking badges. He gave Stevie a skeptical look and twice looked at the photo on Stevie’s badge and then back at him. Having been through the same sort of thing at the Final Four, Stevie said nothing. When the guard went back for a third look, Kelleher couldn’t take it. “You can look at the photo a hundred times and it’s going to be him,” he said. “He’s working with me. He’s legit.”
“Whaddya think, workin’ with you makes the kid legit?” the guard said in one of those unmistakable New York accents. “I’m just doin’ my job here, okay?”
“Fine,” Kelleher said. “Are you done doing your job now?”
“You want I should just throw youse bot’ out?” the guard said.
Before Kelleher could respond, Collins, a step behind Kelleher, jumped in. “Fellas, fellas, let’s all be friends here,” he said. “Mr.…?”
“Shapiro,” the guard said. “Max Shapiro.”
“Max, nice to meet you,” Collins said, shaking hands with the guard as if they were long-lost friends. “This is Bobby Kelleher. He’s the leading tennis writer in the country, and this is his assistant, Steven Thomas. They’re just like you and me, here to see Symanova. No one wants any trouble.”
Shapiro eyed Stevie and Kelleher for another moment. “Okay, Bud,” he said. “Seein’ that it’s you, okay. But the kid don’t look older than thirteen.”
“Well, they do get younger-looking all the time,” Collins said.
That seemed to satisfy Max, who moved aside. Stevie heard someone several rows up shouting Kelleher’s name.
“Kelleher, right here—I was about to give up on you guys!”
Stevie looked in the direction of the voice—which was very familiar—and did a double take. It was Mary Carillo, the CBS tennis commentator who he knew also worked for ESPN. His dad had told him on more than one occasion that if his mother ever ran off with George Clooney, the first person he would pursue was Carillo.
Carillo had black hair and big brown eyes. Her distinctively deep voice sounded exactly as it did on television.
“The love of my life,” she said, throwing her arms around Kelleher as they walked up to greet her. “Only for you and Bud would I have fought off the masses to save these seats. Who’ve we got here?”
Kelleher introduced her to Susan Carol and Stevie. “I can’t tell you what a big fan I am,” Susan Carol said. “I love listening to you talk about tennis.”
“Learned it all from the master,” Carillo said, hugging Collins. “Right, master?”
“You never needed to learn a thing,” Collins said. “You were born knowing everything about tennis.”
Stevie, feeling a little bit left out, heard himself blurt, “My dad thinks you’re hot.”
Carillo laughed, a musical laugh that was filled with joy. “Thank you, Stevie,” she said. “I will take that as a compliment. And tell your dad thank you.”
They all maneuvered into the seats Carillo had apparently saved for them. Others were right behind them searching for fast-filling seats.
“How soon?” Kelleher said, settling in between Carillo and Stevie.
“They announced
players on court to warm up at two o’clock,” Carillo said. “I’ve got one-fifty-five. Hey, did you see the Rubin kid beat Boo-Hoo Three? She could play Symanova in the third round.”
“Didn’t see it,” Kelleher said. “But Susan Carol and Stevie did.”
“What’d you think?” Carillo said, turning to Stevie as if they were peers.
Feeling quite expert, Stevie said, “Well, she’s very good from the back of the court, but she doesn’t volley at all.”
“Sweetie, no one volleys in women’s tennis,” Carillo said in a tone that somehow didn’t sound like a put-down, even though he knew she was right.
“We haven’t had a true serve-and-volleyer since Martina,” Collins said.
A murmur ran through the crowd and Stevie saw a TV cameraman backing out of the tunnel that was right in the middle of the stands across from the umpire’s chair. A moment later, a security guy came out onto the court followed by a short, dark-haired player carrying an enormous racquet bag who Stevie knew had to be Joanne Walsh, Symanova’s opponent. Stevie knew nothing about her other than what he had seen in the newspaper that morning. She was twenty-four years old and ranked ninety-sixth in the world. The paper had referred to her as a “veteran,” which in women’s tennis meant anyone over twenty-one. A second security man walked right behind Walsh.
Stevie realized he was standing up, craning his neck for a view of Symanova. Walsh kept walking across the court to the players’ chairs but the cameraman remained poised just outside the tunnel waiting for Symanova.
“Where is she?” Susan Carol asked. The crowd was beginning to buzz. Walsh had reached her seat and was unzipping her racquet bag. Still, no one else came out of the tunnel.
“Maybe she stopped to check her makeup,” Collins said.
Kelleher laughed. “There is that little bathroom right off the court.”
“Yeah,” Carillo said. “Remember when this was the stadium court and Lendl used to jump in there and change so he could go straight to the parking lot without going back to the locker room?”
“We used to call him Ivan the Unshowered,” Collins said.
The buzz was growing. Still, there was no sign of Symanova. Walsh was now standing, holding her racquet, looking up at the umpire. The umpire had put her hand over the microphone and was leaning down to talk to Walsh.
“This is now officially getting strange,” Carillo said.
“Check this out,” Collins said, pointing in the direction of the tunnel.
A gaggle of security men came sprinting from the tunnel—Stevie counted one, two, three, four, five of them—followed by two men in blazers, both of them barking into walkie-talkies.
“Uh-oh,” Kelleher said. “Something’s up, something big-time.”
“She must be hurt,” Collins said. “But how do you get hurt walking over to the court?”
“Tripped on her stilettos?” Susan Carol asked.
“She’s wearing sneakers!” Stevie said, thinking that was a dumb comment until he realized she was being sarcastic. “Nice, she’s hurt and you’re making jokes.”
“Calm down, Stefano, I’m sure your betrothed is fine,” Collins said, smiling.
The new group of security men had gone directly to Walsh and spoken to her. Whatever they said, she walked quickly back to her chair, zippered her racquet back into her bag, and began walking back across the court with no fewer than eight blue-shirted security men surrounding her. Seeing this, the crowd began whistling—the tennis equivalent of booing.
“Walsh is leaving,” Stevie said. “Symanova must be hurt.”
Kelleher was shaking his head. “If she’s hurt, what’s with all the security people around Walsh? Something’s up. Come on, guys, we need to get out of here.”
“Now?” Susan Carol said.
“Yup,” Kelleher said, “right now.”
He pointed at the two walkie-talkie guys, who were talking intently to the umpire. “Soon as they make an announcement, all hell is going to break loose here. We need to get moving so we don’t get trapped in the stampede for the exits. Come on.”
“I need to stay,” Carillo said. “I’ll see you guys later.”
“I better stay too,” Collins said. “You young guns start chasing this down.”
Kelleher shrugged and made his way to the aisle. Stevie kind of wanted to stay too, but he trusted Kelleher’s instincts. Susan Carol seemed to agree, because she was standing, clearly ready to move. The three of them started down the steps while others in the media section were standing up and consulting with one another. They bolted past Max Shapiro and down the steps leading under the stadium. They were under the stands and sprinting through an almost empty concourse when they heard what had to be the umpire’s voice on the PA system. She wasn’t calling out any score.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to announce that the scheduled match between Joanne Walsh and Nadia Symanova has been postponed until a later time.” Stevie could hear groans and shouts coming from inside as the umpire forged on. “More details will be announced when they become available. Thank you for your patience and indulgence.”
Kelleher turned to Stevie and Susan Carol, shaking his head. “There’s nothing in the rules about postponing a match. If she’s hurt, she defaults. Something crazy’s going on here.”
They made it out onto the courtyard between the two stadiums. There were security people and police all over the place, blocking the most direct path back to the main stadium. When a security guard stopped Kelleher, he held up his media badge. “We’re media,” he said. “We have to get back to the media center.”
“I don’t care who you are,” the security man said. “You can go through the food court like everyone else and you’ll get there eventually. This area’s frozen right now.”
Stevie could see two cops right behind the security guy, ready to back him up. People were being herded from the area very quickly by security and police, all of them being pushed toward the food court. Kelleher could clearly see this was an argument he wasn’t going to win—even if Collins had been there.
He took one swipe at getting something accomplished. “Can’t you at least tell us what in the world is going on?” he said.
One of the cops answered, stepping in front of the security guard. “Here’s what I can tell you, pal: if you don’t get moving right now, you’re going to jail. How’s that for telling you something?”
Stevie could see Kelleher redden a little and bite his lip. He turned to Stevie and Susan Carol. “Come on,” he said, pointing them toward the food court. The good news was that because they had beaten the crowd out of Louis Armstrong, they were able to maneuver their way through the food court fairly quickly.
Kelleher pulled open the door that led back inside with a frustrated yank. The scene inside the building was chaotic. People were running in and out of the entrance to the media center shouting, as far as Stevie could tell, in a variety of languages.
“Okay,” Kelleher said, pausing just outside the pressroom entrance. “We need a strategy of some kind. I think we should split up …”
He broke off in midsentence as a middle-aged man with graying hair ducked out of the media center and made a quick turn away from them.
“Arlen!” Kelleher said, heading toward the man. “Arlen, hang on a second!”
The man half turned, still walking, and waved a hand as if to say, go away. “Not now, Bobby. I can’t talk. We’re organizing a press conference. We’ll let you know what’s going on in a while.”
He had slowed down enough that Kelleher was able to catch up to him. Stevie and Susan Carol followed at what they hoped was a discreet distance.
“In a while?” Kelleher said. “Come on, Arlen, give me a break. Don’t give me that press conference crap. What happened out there? Where the hell is Symanova?”
The man stopped and turned to face Kelleher. Stevie noticed he was quite pale. He looked around as if to be sure no one could hear him and dropped his voice to a whisper so
that Stevie, standing right behind Kelleher, could barely hear.
“We don’t know,” he said.
For a second, Kelleher just stared at him. “What do you mean you don’t know? How can you not know? Wasn’t she on her way over to Armstrong with Walsh?”
“Yes, she was!” Arlen said, clearly exasperated, still looking around as if he was afraid someone would hear him. “They were on their way over there and she disappeared.”
“Disappeared!” Kelleher shouted.
“Bobby, please,” Arlen hissed, signaling Kelleher to keep his voice down. “Yes, she disappeared. You know what it’s like out there between the stadiums. We had four security guys surrounding the two players. A group of people cut across their path headed for the food court. The security guys got jostled. Walsh and her two guys kept going—no one bumped them. By the time Symanova’s guys got untangled, she was gone.”
“But how is that possible?”
Arlen held up his hand. “For crying out loud, Bobby, if we knew, she wouldn’t be missing, would she? We’ve sealed all the exits to the place, but that’s the problem—we’re right on the edge of a park. There are plenty of ways to get off the property without walking through an exit.” He looked around again. “I’ve got to go. There’s a meeting in about two minutes. I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Okay, okay,” Kelleher said. “Can I quote you on this stuff?”
Arlen smiled wanly. “At this point, that’s the least of my worries.” He turned and walked down the hallway.
“Who was that?” Stevie asked.
“Arlen Kanterian,” Kelleher said. “He’s the CEO of professional tennis for the U.S. Tennis Association. It means he’s in charge of the tournament. He talks to me because his brother Harry’s a friend of mine.” He took a deep breath.
“Okay, this story is officially huge. Beyond huge. We’ve got a big leg up on people right now—let’s do something with it.”
“Like what?” Susan Carol said, for once looking as baffled as Stevie felt.
Kelleher took another deep breath. “Good question,” he said. Then he snapped his fingers. “Listen, Susan Carol, you can get into the junior girls’ locker room.”
Last Shot Page 21
