Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  Roy squirmed on the edge of his seat and bled with every point that Connor lost. “Wake up, for God’s sake,” Roy yelled. “That’s his ninth forehand winner. You need a fucking neon sign to tell you to hit to his backhand?”

  “Shhh,” I hissed. “No coaching. You’ll get us thrown out.”

  Roy sucked in his lips, ripped the handkerchief from his pocket, and swabbed his forehead. His face scrunched up like a prune, and I imagined that he was trying to send advice to Connor telepathically. Gardener served for the set, and during the first point of that game, Roy jumped to his feet, screaming, “Lob him, for Christ’s sake. Use your head!” I pulled him back into his seat and silenced him with a glance.

  I noticed tightness creeping into Gardener’s ball toss. Under the pressure of serving out the set, he began to spray his first serves a few inches long, giving Connor a chance to smack his second serves back into play.

  With the set all but lost, Connor went for broke and spanked a few winners, upping his level of aggression. He fought off two set points to break Gardener, and that momentum helped him hold his own serve. But Gardener closed out the set on his next service game, fending off three breakpoints.

  Gardener had won the first set, but Connor had stepped up his play with the right amount of intensity. It looked like he might make a match of it, which caused goose bumps to chill my shoulders. Roy pulled a roll of Tums from his pocket and popped two in his mouth, biting down with force.

  Breaking Gardener in the first set allowed Connor to believe he could beat the world-number-three, and belief blossomed into determination. He began to out-scramble, out-hit, and out-think the veteran. Gardener’s huge serve kept him winning his service games, but Connor won the lion’s share of rallies.

  Roy settled into his seat with his lips sealed tight as a drum. Each time Connor won a hard-fought game, an emphatic “Hmmmmph” escaped Roy’s lips. At four-all, Connor broke Gardener and served out the second set to even the match. When he won set point, a triumphant “Hummmmph!” flew from Roy.

  Connor’s determination intensified with every game. He fought toe-to-toe with the veteran, proving he had world-class talent. I became dizzy. He had surpassed all my hopes. It felt like all the planets had aligned. Even Roy’s annoying clicking had stopped. He had maxed his camera’s memory, and although he had a spare memory chip, he couldn’t figure out how to install it. He scrambled to find the directions.

  The third set turned into an edge-of-your-seat thrill ride. Both players elevated their intensity. Neither man could break the other. The fans cheered every point, urging both men on.

  The red and yellow Chinese dragon embroidered on Connors back seemed to swell with vehemence. The goose bumps on my shoulders spread, shivering up my neck and spilling across my scalp.

  But I saw something creep into Connor’s game. He became too confident and began to showboat. On several of his backhand groundstrokes, instead of planting his feet in a balanced stance for a solid shot, he took the ball early at shoulder height by jumping off the court and striking the ball at the top of his jump. It’s a shot that former world number one Marcelo Rios introduced and top players like Mark Nicholas and Sebastian Seaborne continue to use. It allows you to get more power into the shot and create sharper angles, but it’s risky. I was overjoyed to see him feeling so confident, but I now believed he could win the match, and I didn’t want him throwing it away by trying flashy, low-percentage shots.

  In the third set tiebreaker, Connor bunted every one of Gardener’s bullet serves back into play, making the veteran come up with the goods. A twenty-eight-stroke rally at four-all clinched it for Connor when he drew Gardener to the net with a drop shot and nailed a topspin lob. The final two points, both on Connor’s serve, were a formality. He served and volleyed the first for a winner, his first serve and volley of the match. On match point, he smashed an ace up the centerline. His racket sailed thirty feet into the air, and he flashed a triumphant smile across the net at Gardener for good measure.

  I leaned toward Roy and said, “This time next year, the whole world will sit up and take notice. Connor has a reservoir of determination that he’s just beginning to tap.”

  He grunted with satisfaction. I assumed he was agreeing with me, but I realized that he had just replaced the memory chip in his camera so that he could capture the handshake. As Connor approached the net, Roy began rapid-fire shooting.

  Connor and Gardener shook hands. Gardener almost ran off the court, while Connor took his time, signing autographs to hordes of kids.

  Roy and I hurried to the pressroom to hear the post-match interviews. Gardener sat at a table half-surrounded by two dozen reporters and an ESPN camera crew. I saw at a glance how the loss had demoralized him.

  The reporters fired questions like a machine gun. Gardener blamed a cramping muscle in his back that kept him from serving well and the fact that he felt exhausted from winning his previous tournament the week before—the usual excuses. All his answers emphasized how he had lost the match rather than how Connor had won it. When the questions petered out, he slinked to the showers looking like a whipped dog. My old feelings of sympathy surfaced. Gardener hadn’t played a poor match, and he was the better player, but I knew how this loss would mess with his self-esteem. Connor had played the match of his life. It happens with the same regularity as blue moons.

  Connor cut through the crowd and sat at the interview desk. He flaunted a nervous smile and, even though this was his hardest-fought victory, he radiated energy. Reporters crowded around him to pat him on the back and congratulate him. Several people patted him right on his embroidered dragon, as if they were hopeful that some of his luck would rub off on them.

  Once Connor sat in front of the cameras, with all the lights blazing and everybody staring, he seemed to deflate. He was uncomfortable. His eyes grew large as he glanced around the room as if he were searching for an escape route.

  Roy rushed over and sat next to him as the reporters blasted Connor with questions. I tried to stop him because only players are allowed to give the post-match interview, but he was too quick for me. Everyone in the room gave a glance at the person sitting next to him.

  Before anyone could object, Connor introduced Roy and congratulated Gardener on a well-played match. He explained how our game plan had won him a few pivotal points, then responded to each question with a nervous hesitation.

  His timid charisma seemed to charm everyone. The reporters ate it up and drooled for more. They all had the tangible hope that Connor was the next big thing, and they were there to record its birth. Excitement electrified the room.

  A reporter asked if his embroidered dragon held any significance. Connor stated that his grandmother had embroidered it for luck and to show his pride in their heritage.

  The excitement level vaulted over the moon. The fact that this kid’s grandmother played a part in his tennis gave him a hometown, family-oriented air that was unheard of in the polished world of professional tennis. The room sizzled.

  One reporter asked the question I had been dreading: “Connor, the rumor mill is saying that your coach is gay. Is that true?”

  The background buzz hushed. More than a few eyebrows lifted while everyone leaned forward.

  “I’m his coach,” Roy said, “and I can assure you I’m quite normal.”

  “It’s no secret you’ve been working with Daniel Bottega and Jared Stoderling, and the rumor is that they’re lovers. Can you comment?”

  Roy cleared his throat. “Yes, we’ve worked with Daniel, and Jared is my boy’s doubles partner for this tournament, but our relationship with them is strictly a professional one. We have never discussed their personal lives with them or anybody else. If you wish to pry into their affairs, I suggest that you ask them directly.”

  “Connor, are you gay?”

  Roy began to answer, but Connor laid his hand on Roy’s arm to quiet him. He tilted his head to one side and frowned, silent for a moment, as if to summon up his c
ourage. He said, “You seem to be an educated man. I’m sure you can find a more dignified question to ask, perhaps one pertaining to tennis?”

  Silence blanketed the room.

  The tournament director, David Salinger, stepped in front of the table and said that if there were no other tennis-related questions, we should let the hero of the hour retire to the showers. His eyes rested on me, and if looks could kill, my story would have ended right there.

  As Connor slipped off to the shower room, everybody stood and applauded, and the smile reappeared on Connor’s face. I wondered if they were clapping because of his win or the classy way that he had handled a touchy situation. I felt the urge to rush over and hug him, but that, of course, was the last thing we needed.

  UNLIKE Connor’s dramatic match, Jared’s first round was a stroll in the park. He played another qualifier out on court six. He kept the ball well inside the lines so that the umpire had no chance to overrule any line calls.

  Only a handful of spectators sat in the bleachers, and nobody grew excited as Jared mauled his opponent in straight-sets. But after the match, a mob of reporters and an ESPN camera crew stampeded into the pressroom to get an interview. I knew what was coming. They never bothered to interview players ranked outside the top twenty unless they sniffed blood, and Jared had those jackals licking their chops.

  My stomach folded in on itself. Jared shot me his best what-the-fuck smile as he sat at the interview table. Ralph Carter, the ESPN reporter, brushed past all the tennis-related issues by congratulating Jared on his return to pro-tennis and on his win today.

  Jared nodded his head; his smile widened.

  “A rumor is going round,” Carter continued, “that you and your coach, Daniel Bottega, are lovers. Will you comment on that?”

  A roar erupted from the stadium court, and it seemed deafening compared to the hush in the pressroom. Everybody went rigid.

  Jared gazed at the reporter. “Daniel and I have been life-partners for over ten years. It’s no secret that we love each other. Is that some kind of news? I can assure you that we’re not the only gay men on the tour, just the only ones who are out.”

  Surprisingly, that tight feeling in the pit of my stomach began to relax. The hush turned into silence. Nobody had expected to hear the truth, and they didn’t know what else to say. Carter cleared his throat and asked, “Jared, have you or Daniel had sexual relations with any of these other closeted players?”

  Jared shook his head. “Sex with other players? My goodness, no,” he said, appropriately shocked. “Like I said, Daniel and I are life-partners. To us, that means a loving, monogamous relationship. There is nobody else I’m interested in.”

  I felt myself glowing. A murmur rose from the press corps. Several reporters seemed to swing on to Jared’s side.

  “So neither of you have had sexual relations with Connor Lin?”

  Jared’s eyes widened. “Of course not. Connor’s girlfriend would roast us alive if we got cute with him.”

  A roar of laughter swept through the reporters, who now swung behind Jared. They jotted notes. Ralph Carter ran out of steam, having nowhere else to take his line of questioning. Jared didn’t give him a chance to recover. He said, “I fear, Mr. Carter, that you have no intention of discussing tennis, but rather are attempting to draw me into a discussion on morals. Do you represent ESPN or the Christian channel?”

  Applause.

  “Jared,” a voice from the back cried as the noise faded, “are you willing to disclose the names of other gay players?”

  “Their personal lives are none of my business and none of yours.”

  “Jared,” another voice said. “Does your being gay have anything to do with your four year absence from the tour? And if so, what brought you back?”

  Jared shook his head. “I prefer not to comment on my reasons for leaving the tour. What brought me back was my love for the game.”

  “Would you consider playing mixed doubles with Martina or Amelie?”

  “I’ll be happy to play mixed doubles with any woman on the tour.”

  My heart beat so fast that I felt the blood surging through my veins. Jared stayed icy cool under fire. His eyes held the frightened stare of a cornered animal, but his voice and body showed no sign of tension. I had a hard time believing this was happening. I knew it had to happen at some point—a male player coming out—but I never dreamed it would be us.

  A pause gave Jared an opportunity to stand, wave, and head for the showers. The reporters were so stunned that no one tried to ask more questions. I was half-afraid they would turn on me with their questions, but to my relief, they finished writing their notes and left the room in twos and threes, discussing the interview in excited tones.

  David Salinger sauntered over to me. He shook my hand and said, “Personally, I think you’re loony. This is not San Francisco, ya know,” he said. “Coming out on national TV is huge. I hope ya know what you’re doing.”

  “No,” I said, showing a sheepish grin. “We don’t have a clue.”

  That afternoon, my boys played their first doubles match and won in straight sets, 6-3, 6-4. It was an impressive win considering they were both still flying high from their singles wins. They proved they could put their excitement aside and concentrate like I had taught them. After a clean sweep on day one, a taste of fear soured the sweetness of our wins—my fear that things were going too smoothly. It can’t last, I thought. Can it?

  CONNOR’S win over Gardener gave the Nike representatives a change of heart. They insisted on taking us to dinner at a restaurant called The Chicago Steakhouse, which seemed gay-friendly. At least the male waiters were stylish, and both women bartenders were slinky and pretty, but they looked like the kind of women who didn’t take crap from anyone.

  Connor and Jared both ordered the porterhouse steak ($75 each) and a green salad ($18 each). Roy and J.D. both had the Maine Lobster ($86 each) and baked potato ($12 each), Shar and Spencer had the Caribbean shrimp and scallop ceviche ($44 each), and I had the New Bedford bay scallops with orange-miso vinaigrette ($58.75). J.D. topped it off by ordering two bottles of Black Hawk Creek Cabernet ($115 each).

  We had so much to celebrate, but I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that we were spiraling into trouble. Jared and Connor stuffed their mouths with bloody rare prime, salad, and sourdough rolls. They chewed with bulging cheeks. Roy and J.D. hardly ate a bite. They were too busy sucking up to the Nike reps—industrial-strength Hoover vacuum sucking.

  Connor sat to my immediate left. He leaned toward me and asked in a low voice if he should take the Nike deal or shop around.

  “Depends on your life goals,” I said. “Nike will probably deliver the most profitable deal, so if you want a tennis career, it’s a sound move. But the day we met, you said that tennis was a way to make money to attend a medical school. If you sign that contract, you’re committing to play tennis for the next five or ten years. Bye-bye, Dr. Lin.”

  Connor grew silent. A minute later, he said, “If I don’t sign, my dad will go ballistic. He and Mom have sacrificed so much.”

  I reached up and patted his shoulder. “Who said life is fair? Besides, you think they’ll stop loving you if you become a doctor?”

  He dropped his head.

  “You know,” I said, “at eighteen, Johnny Mac was the number one junior in the world. After that he reached number twenty-one on the pro tour. You know what he did then? He quit the tour and went to Stanford, spent a year studying and playing the NCAA circuit, and when he was damned good and ready, he when back on tour. The rest is history. My point is, you have options.”

  “But if I sign the contracts….”

  “You don’t need to decide right now,” I said. “As long as you keep winning, these vultures will keep circling. The more you win, the bigger their offer grows. So if you’re not sure, give it time. Focus on your tennis and forget about contracts. Stay in the now, and right now you need to prepare for your match tomorrow, so finish that steak.
”

  He nodded, but he didn’t say another word during the rest of dinner. I was lost in thought myself. I wanted him to realize his dream, wherever that led, but for selfish reasons, I wanted him to sign that contract. That way, I could coach him for the next five years and be paid the going rate for my work, which was triple my present salary.

  I knew that torn-in-two feeling that showed on Connor’s face.

  Chapter 15

  THE next morning, we hit the gym, then drove to John’s for breakfast. Over coffee and before the food arrived, we found ourselves splattered across the morning papers: “Gay Tennis Star Comes Out on ESPN.” We were not the feature story, but we did make the front page with pictures of Jared, me, and Connor. We later learned that the story received nation-wide coverage.

  As Roy read the article, his face blushed a poached-salmon color. We ignored him as we discussed the day’s schedule in low voices.

  A gay couple in the corner booth kept glancing our way. After paying their check, they sauntered over and asked for our autographs. They gushed about how proud they were of what we were doing. Roy turned to stare out the front window while chewing his pancakes. After the couple left, I asked, “Something wrong, Roy? You got quiet all of the sudden.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

  “Good,” Shar snapped, “because nobody wants to hear it.”

  Jared and I exchanged looks. I could read his mind, and it mirrored my own: it was either her time of the month, or someone didn’t get any nookie last night. We both smiled. Her comment brought about a silence that lasted for the rest of our meal.

  When we arrived at the tennis facility, we found it mobbed with several hundred gay men who seemed to be waiting for our arrival. Most of the crowd seemed young and athletic. Many of them probably played tennis themselves. There was also a smattering of older gay couples walking arm-in-arm and three drag queens dressed in wigs and women’s tennis outfits—looking like Amelie, Serena, and Maria. Five shirtless gay teens wore rainbow flags as capes. Each one had a large red block letter printed on his chest. When they stood together, the letters spelled out Jared’s name.