by Alan Chin
When we had just started on the tour, those first four years, he had been so strong. I thought he was indestructible. But the world has no pity for strong people, and it does whatever it takes to break them. It breaks them, heals them, breaks them, and each time they grow stronger in the broken places until they are so strong that they refuse to break anymore. That’s when the world kills them. It kills the good, the gentle, the strong, impartially. It kills everyone, but with weak people, it takes its own sweet time.
MORNING broke. I woke to the tap tap of rain against the windowpane. The aroma of brewing coffee permeated the room. I realized that I was not alone. Mr. Toa sat on the end of the bed. His eyes nailed me through slits. His tail brushed from side to side like a metronome measuring the passing seconds. I swung my legs over the bedside and pulled on a pair of red shorts before stumbling to the kitchen. Jared sat at the table with a half-full cup in front of him.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked, not liking the look of him.
He stared at me with soulless, bloodshot eyes.
“Want some breakfast?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I couldn’t hold it down. My head’s throbbing, my stomach’s doing somersaults. If I were a horse, they’d shoot me.” His voice was raw, and so soft I had to strain to hear.
“Take some painkillers.”
“I took eight. It doesn’t help.”
While I poured myself a cup of coffee, my mind churned with things I wanted to tell him, or more accurately, lecture him about—that drinking exacerbates the problem, that drinking on an empty stomach is beyond moronic and he deserved a hangover, that his root problem was self pity and if he didn’t find a way to work through that bullshit I would shoot him—but there are times to speak out and times to shut up, and my venting at that moment would have benefited no one.
“They beat us,” he said. “Beat us twice.”
“They whipped us before we started,” I replied, “before our first tournament. Just took us time to realize it. But at least we played the game, and we got to see what we could do.”
He shook his head, and his eyes shone with tears.
“We grow wiser in defeat,” I said. “Victory brings happiness and pride; defeat brings wisdom. It’s a small consolation.” I even depressed myself. That’s why it does no good to talk about those things, I thought. You can’t work it out with words. You can only pick yourself up and keep moving to the next moment without looking back.
RAIN fell throughout the morning, freeing me of Connor’s practice. I burrowed myself in my office and organized my thoughts around Jared, sitting at my desk, looking up at the ceiling fan as it ticked away the seconds.
An idea rippled through my head: would he be better off without me? I might be a constant reminder of what he had lost, and without me, he could begin to heal. I dismissed that thought. In my heart, I knew that I was all that was keeping him from drinking himself into the gutter. Another more troublesome question crossed my mind: would I be better off without him? I dismissed that thought as well.
I stood up and hunted for something to do. The office couldn’t get any more tidy, so I had nothing but the half-dozen rackets stacked by the stringing machine, but they could wait another day, or two, or three. I felt the need to walk. I slipped on my parka, zipped it up, pulled the hood over my head, and strolled to the greens, chewing up divots of grass with each long stride.
I loved the golf course when it rained. I had those fairways to myself; I could leave the world behind and hike for miles until the pain dulled. I walked until the rain stopped and the sun broke through the cloud cover. It was almost noon before I remembered that J.D. Lambert had said he’d meet me for lunch. I climbed the hill to the clubhouse and saw him through the glass, dressed in the same Elvis style suit and hairdo. A toothpick hung from his mouth. To my surprise, Shar sat beside him.
She wore the same slinky black party dress and lizard high heels that she had worn at last night’s party. Her face looked rather bruised in the noontime light, and I would have bet her eyes were bloodshot, but there was no way to see beyond her thick, dark sunglasses. When she saw me, her hand tried to smooth her tousled hair, but it did little to improve her looks.
Why not? I thought, crossing the room. Let’s wash all the dirty laundry with one load.
I shook hands with J.D. and, before I could stop myself, I said, “Hi Elv… I mean, Mr. Lambert.” An uncomfortable silence settled over us as I sat down. To cover my embarrassment, I raised my arm to signal the waitress. Turning back, I noticed that J.D. was already drinking creamed coffee and she was sipping a martini.
I nodded at her drink. “Early in the day for that, isn’t it?”
“Technically speaking, no. I’m still going strong from last night.” She blushed and glanced away with a self-amused expression.
I assumed she had kept Connor up drinking all night too. My anger, which had taken me hours to walk off, began to simmer with new strength. “That must take some effort. Must be nice to summon up that kind of stamina.”
“The trick,” she slurred, “is not to pussy out in the wee hours. Once you make the dawn, it gets easy.”
“Shar, why are you here?”
The question didn’t embarrass her. She seemed amused at my confusion. “Just looking out for Connor’s interests,” she said with a toss of her head and a rather condescending grin.
“Yes, he obviously needs a lot of looking after these days.”
“A disapproving tone of voice, darling? What, am I in trouble now because I keep my client happy?” Her grin spread into a smile.
My anger jumped to a rolling boil, and my hand twitched with a mind of its own, wanting to smack that smile off her face.
“That’s right. I don’t approve of mixing personal and professional relationships, and I want it to stop.” One smack, one measly little smack, was all my hand craved. It was almost too overpowering. I stuffed both hands in my jacket pockets.
“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just butt into my personal affairs. You seem confused about who’s the boss and who’s the employee? That’s Connor’s decision, not yours.”
“Oh, I’m very aware of who the employees are, and there’s a name for women who fuck the boss. Let’s see, it was just on the tip of my tongue….” My voice had a rising inflection that broadcast my growing contempt.
“Don’t you dare go there!” Her smile faded.
It was my turn to grin, but I felt too lousy to make the effort. “Sorry,” I said, and meant it. I couldn’t tell if I was that angry at her or still upset over Jared or in what the English call “a muddle,” a term for which there is no American equivalent.
“You’d be a damn sight sorrier if you’d hit me like you wanted to do. Oh yes, darling, I read you like a book. Men like you want to think women are stupid, that you’re somehow superior, and when we push back and show our intelligence, you want to slap us down.”
“Men like me? Like you somehow know me?”
“I know that you’re acting very superior, even though you’ve done nothing that grants you that privilege. His winning one minor tournament says very little about your abilities.”
“Okay, that’s me: cocky without a cause. Let’s get back to why you’re here. What are you after?”
“Perhaps I’m just a girl who can’t sit still, and a free ticket to all those exciting cities across the globe is an offer I can’t refuse.”
“That wouldn’t explain why you’re meddling into Connor’s financial affairs.”
“Perhaps I’ve fallen for your young protégé and my motherly instincts are emerging. So much so that I’m trying to protect my little chick.”
“I’d say the bullshit has gone from hip deep to right under our noses.”
“I’m here for the same damned reason as you are: to ride our shooting star long enough and high enough to walk away with what I call Up Yours Status.”
“That’s a new one on me.”
“Up Yours Stat
us is having an esteemed professional reputation and enough money in the bank so that I can tell any crass, egocentric S.O.B. that crosses my path to go stuff it.” Her tone sounded a little too accusing for my taste.
“Nice to know you have such lofty aspirations.”
She peeled off her dark glasses and squinted at me. “If you think you’re here for a different reason, then you’re up to your ears in denial, and if you ever butt into my personal affairs again, even with no reputation and no money, I’ll tell you where to stick it in a heartbeat.”
J.D. had sat there chewing on his toothpick, but he held up his hands and stammered, “Hold on, the both of you. I didn’t come here to referee a catfight; I’m here to talk business. Do you realize that we’re sitting on a gold mine? I tell you, with a little surgery to rebuild his nose, this kid can do commercials, acting, modeling, you name it.”
The waitress sauntered up with menus, but none of us wanted lunch. J.D. asked for a coffee refill, I ordered tea, and Shar tapped her empty martini glass, saying, “One more, three olives.” She glanced at me, her expression an obvious challenge.
J.D. slid the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, picking up where he left off. “This kid’s got looks, charisma, an overpowering baseline game, and he’s Chinese. Advertisers will crawl all over him. He doesn’t need to win a single tournament. Look at Srichaphan, what did he win? He barely crawled in the top twenty, and in Thailand he’s bigger than Tiger Woods and Michael Jordan put together. And what about Anna Kournikova? She never won a singles title, and she became the top paid woman athlete of any sport. The point is, if we play this right, get him the right exposure, he gets very, very rich and we all do swell in the fallout.”
“He’s not asking you to compromise Connor’s training,” Shar said, her smoky voice now almost a croon. “He’s suggesting that you do your job and let him do his.”
J.D. shifted the toothpick in his mouth again. “That means I decide which tournaments he plays and what kind of exposure he gets.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m trying to transform a talented athlete into a champion. That’s all I’m here for. And to do that, I say when and where and how he plays. If you play along and he stays healthy, everything else—the contracts, the exposure, the fame—will come in its wake.”
The waitress brought a tray of drinks and placed them in front of us. She handed me the check and walked away.
J.D. said, “I know what you think of me. You think I’m a vulture, a no-talent bum trying to cash in on some innocent kid. I see it in your face.”
Silence.
“Look,” he said. “I’m not such a bad guy. I have a wife and two girls, seven and twelve, and a cocker spaniel who thinks I’m pretty okay. Right now I play cello in a string quartet in order to put food on the table. You have any idea how little musicians get paid, even the talented ones? All I’m trying to do is make a little money for everybody involved, including you. What’s the harm?”
“Nothing. I’ve got nothing against money. But Connor wants to become the best player in the world, which, as you’ve pointed out, is not the same as making millions. I’m trying to help him realize his dream, and I’m not letting the pursuit of money”—I looked at Shar—“or anything else, for that matter, get in the way. Connor needs to focus on his game, and he needs to take small steps. It’s like climbing Everest. Every couple of thousand feet, you need to stop for a few days to acclimate, otherwise you die of High Altitude Pulmonary Edema. Connor is fragile. He needs to be brought along carefully.”
“Timing is everything in this business,” J.D. said, shaking his head.
“It’s quite simple,” I said. “You mentioned Kournikova? Yes, she made tons of money, but her career was over before she turned twenty. If we mold him into a champion, the wins will come. With wins come titles. With titles come endorsements. If you don’t work from the ground up, you end up a flash in the pan with nothing but a bank account.”
“You’re afraid,” he blurted as his face turned a precise shade of purple. He pulled the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at me. “You’re scared shitless that if they make some real money, they’ll be able to afford a better coach, not some has-been faggot that got run out of the game. Don’t look so surprised. I know all about you and Jared Stoderling.”
“Well, at least you said has-been instead of never-was. Thank you for that.”
I pushed the check over to Shar. “You can get this, darling, since the way you make your money is so much more fun than me busting my ass on the court for six hours every day.”
There wasn’t much gin left in her martini glass, but what there was found its way to my face. The smolder in her eyes was coldly red as she set her glass back on the table. She lifted her chin and turned away with a posture like royalty dismissing the servants.
I rose and stalked from the dining room. As my mind calmed, I noted that the clouds were dissipating. The courts would be dry for Connor’s three o’clock session.
I EXPECTED Connor to show up energized from his big win, but he was quiet and moody. No doubt, I thought, the result of a hangover combined with little or no sleep.
Spencer, on the other hand, glowed. He and Uncle Harman must have hit it off, and I couldn’t help wondering if he had gotten laid. That would explain his shit-eating grin.
We began with tai chi to clear our minds. Shar sat on the veranda, watching us move through our routine. With her there, I found it difficult to let go of our earlier conversation. I forced myself to focus on the feel of my breath filling and emptying my lungs, the sound of my shoes moving over the court, the breeze flowing over my face. The exercise pulled me into silence, and the world dropped away one thought at a time.
When we began our warm-up, Connor’s moodiness weighted him down. He seemed listless, distracted. I assumed he nursed a hangover. The best thing for that, I knew, was to sweat it out by driving him hard. I had him perform speed drills, running him side to side, smacking a wide forehand after racing to smack a wide backhand, again and again. He built up a sweat, but he only gave it half his normal effort.
After ten minutes of aggressive running, I called him to the net.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“You’re pushing too hard.”
“Not true. We do this drill every week, and you always give me a hundred percent. Are you hung over?”
“I had one beer, so crawl off my back.”
“Listen, Connor. You’re running on three cylinders, so either you don’t feel well, or you’ve got some bug up your ass, which is fine as long as we work through it. You see, this happens on tour. You’ll feel like crap most of the time, but you still have to drag your ass on court and raise your game enough to win. Some days you’re operating at a hundred percent and you’ll play awesome tennis; other times, you’re at sixty percent or worse. You need to learn how to squeeze a hundred percent effort out of a sixty percent day. It’s about attitude. That’s what champions do: they push themselves to the wall even when they feel like dog barf.”
“Whatever.”
“Let’s start by showing a bit more enthusiasm.”
“Get Spence on court,” Connor said. “He’s the one that danced his ass off with Uncle Harman and slinked off to fuck the rest of the night. He should have plenty of enthusiasm.”
“We didn’t have sex!”
“You were on him like white on rice.”
“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just use that particular metaphor,” Spencer said, grinning and trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, Harman didn’t seem to mind.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I do. Why pick on my family? Why can’t you find somebody else to fuck?”
“Con, I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Yeah right, happy that you turned my uncle into a cradle robber? Christ, he’s almost thirty. I didn’t even know he was gay.”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed, and his face darkened. He grabbed his tennis bag, slung it over his shoulder
, and stalked toward the clubhouse. After a dozen steps, he stopped and turned. Anger disfigured his face.
“I’m not giving him up. He’s taking me to dinner tonight, and I plan to give him anything he wants. He likes me and I like him, so deal with it.” Spencer turned and stomped away.
“Fuck!” Connor hissed, struggling within himself, no doubt trying to decide whether he should chase down his friend and apologize. I gave him a minute, until I realized he wasn’t going after Spencer and I felt a twinge of disappointment.
Doing any kind of drills would have been pointless, but I knew he needed some intense physical activity to work through his emotions. I told Connor to leave his stuff on the bench and run with me. He nodded and threw his racket toward his bag. Seconds later, we were running side-by-side through the junipers at the edge of a fairway.
The dull roar of cars tumbled downhill from the highway, but I focused on the desperate quality of Connor’s breathing. He seized the lead, and I followed his flowing body through the shadows made by the trees. I loved to watch him run. Even when he was boiling inside, he still moved with the grace of a gazelle.
We crossed the Great Highway and flew down the beach. The loose sand slowed our pace, but Connor worked hard to maintain a fast clip. He gave a hundred percent, and I was thankful for that. It meant he had put aside his self-pity and ran with an empty mind. He needed that; we both did.
We ran like shore birds scurrying across the wet, gray sand, but after two miles, he began to limp. We slowed to a walk and stopped. He bent over with his hands kneading his right thigh. His leg muscles quivered with tremors.
“I’m cramping,” he gasped with ragged breath. Intense pain grimaced his face.
“Keep your weight off it.” I drew my arm around his waist to help support him. My free hand felt his forehead, and I found that he was running a low-grade fever, a typical symptom of over training. Between the tournament, our practice sessions, and Shar’s training schedule, we had over-extended him, no doubt resulting in magnesium loss, which would also account for his moodiness.
