by Alan Chin
The entire group gathered around our practice court, pushing, shoving, and scratching their way to the front for a snapshot. They were beyond a doubt the most enthusiastic fans I’d seen anywhere in the world.
In our first match up, Jared would play the serve-and-volleyer James Holden from Great Britain. Holden rarely went for power shots. He used superb ball control to work his way to net for a volley put-away. I had Connor serve and volley against Jared, getting him used to having the opponent charging the net. Jared passed Connor two out of three attempts, which made me hopeful. Jared also practiced moving forward as a way to take the net first and force Holden to play the backcourt.
By nine thirty, the temperature had nudged toward ninety degrees. Jared peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt, and a collective gasp ricocheted through the crowd. Cameras clicked nonstop, sounding like a swarm of crickets. Not to be out-done, as soon as Connor realized the crowd’s reaction, he pulled off his own shirt. The fans cheered. Shyness kept Spencer from following their example.
Cries of, “We love you,” soared over the court, and it became impossible to keep Connor and Jared focused, because they both kept smacking the beans out of the ball to impress their audience. We practiced for forty-five minutes, followed by fifteen minutes of signing autographs. We had to hurry to the locker room to get Jared ready for his second-round match. The crowd followed us like legions trailing Hannibal across the Alps.
Because of the vast numbers of fans that had come to watch my boys, the tournament organizers did some schedule reshuffling, putting us on the main stadium court, the only court with enough seats. Jared would play at eleven o’clock, Connor at three. By match time, the cheap seats were packed with gay fans, and a roar went up as Jared stepped on to the court.
James Holden had fallen to number twenty-eight in the rankings, but he still had enough game to beat anybody on any given day. But if Jared stays focused, I thought, he can win.
From the get-go, Jared controlled the match with his forehand groundstrokes, keeping Holden nailed to the baseline until he could unleash a winner. Every time he hit one of his bullets, the gay fans went wild. It sounded like Carnival. Rainbow flags soared through the air like battle banners. The wave went around the stadium every time Jared won a game.
Jared rushed the net on several critical points to keep Holden back and won the point nearly every time. Twice the chair umpire overruled a line call in Holden’s favor, and each time the gay fans booed so loud and for so long that I thought they would stop the match. Fortunately, being on center court, they had the Shot Spot verification system, which allowed Jared to challenge the calls. Both times they confirmed that Jared had indeed won the point, and the fans shrieked. I felt sorry for Holden. He not only had to battle against Jared’s huge groundstrokes but also maintain his concentration while several hundred fans jeered at him.
When Jared stepped to the baseline to serve for the match, the cheers were deafening. As he won match point, the jubilant crowd erupted. I had to cover my ears.
In the post-match press conference, Holden voiced remarks about the noise level from the more “flamboyant” fans. Afterwards, the reporters peppered Jared with questions about the fans, about being gay in a straight-dominated sport, and about our relationship. He handled each question with dignity, and once again, he had me glowing.
While we waited for Jared in the players’ lounge, David Salinger informed me that Karl Diefenbach, president of the ATP, had flown into town that morning and wanted to take Jared and me to lunch. It was like being summoned by royalty. We couldn’t refuse.
I informed Roy and Connor about the luncheon, adding that if we weren’t back in time to prepare Connor for his match, Spencer would need to warm him up forty-five minutes before play time. We reviewed the game plan, and I told them to ensure that Connor stayed warm and limber with stretching exercises right up until match time.
A limo chauffeured us to an exclusive club in Indian Wells. We walked from the desert sunshine, past wooden doors, into a cool, dim entry hall with oil paintings set between curtained windows and lit by chandeliers.
Before I could give our names to the headwaiter, Diefenbach glided across the plush carpet as quiet as a mouse. He wore his good-old-boy smile and called out, “They’re with me, Thomas.” He shook my hand with slim, polished fingers and flung his arm over Jared’s shoulder in an unconvincing gesture of friendship. “Congratulations on an impressive win against James. I hope you’re both hungry; the food here is superlative. I’ve booked a quiet table so we can talk.”
He had a regal face, lean, with a stubborn line to his mouth. His eyes were hazel and small. His Brioni suit, linen shirt, and silk tie were all the same shade of black. The only other color on him was his silver hair and his pale skin, which seemed devoid of color altogether. He looked like an undertaker.
Thomas led us through a dining room done in red velvet drapes and mahogany furniture. We passed tables of white-haired men dressed in leisurewear to a corner table protected by a marble pillar and two potted dracaena palms. No one sat within earshot. From a white Steinway Grand by the bar came the tinkle of a Chopin nocturne. Jared and I had never before experienced this kind of world; it made the Chicago Steakhouse seem like a Dunkin Donuts. We glanced at each other with a slight apprehension of what was to come.
“Marvelous, simply marvelous that you two are back on the tour. The sport needs talented people like you.”
An African-American waiter in a mauve dinner jacket handed us menus and stood waiting for drink orders.
“Thank you, Mr. Diefenbach,” I said.
“I shall be insulted if you don’t call me Karl. Now, shall I order champagne, or would you prefer cocktails?”
“Sparkling water for us,” I said.
“Of course. How silly of me. Well, some time when you’re not playing a tournament, we’ll have to tie one on.” He turned to the waiter. “Bernard, a bottle of San Pelegrino and champagne for me, if you please.”
We opened our menus, and Jared and I shot each other a stare. I had heard about places where the menus didn’t include the prices, of course, but until that moment I’d never seen such a menu.
“The trout amandine is superb, and they do an excellent job with the Beef Wellington. Which shall you have, fish or beef?”
“The fish,” I said.
“And I’ll have the seafood pasta,” Jared said. His voice carried a hint of caution.
“I’ve asked you here to talk about all this publicity you’ve provoked in the last few days. Your comeback has made a sizeable splash, not only in the newspapers and on television, but by having those sissies coming to the tournament dressed as women.” He shook his head and made a clucking sound.
“I only saw three people in drag,” I said. “I hardly see that as an overwhelming problem. Besides, we didn’t ask for publicity. We wanted to keep our relationship private.”
“Fucking deplorable, actually. Journalist are whores,” Diefenbach declared, his voice deep with understanding. “They’ll screw their own grandmothers for a headline.”
A few moments of silence passed before Bernard returned with our drinks. He poured our water and set a flute of champagne in front of Diefenbach.
“Bernard, we’ll start with shrimp cocktails, and for the main course, we’ll have two trouts and the Beef Wellington for my other guest,” Diefenbach said, waving a hand in Jared’s direction. “And we’ll all have your magnificent soufflé for dessert.”
Jared raised an eyebrow but shook his head to indicate that the order mix-up didn’t matter.
Turning back to us, Diefenbach said, “Your announcement on ESPN has generated an avalanche of emails to the ATP. I’ve read some of them myself. Some, understandably, are very supportive. A high percentage, however, is pure hate mail. A few are truly frightening. This tournament has even received threatening phone calls. There are people out there who want to hurt you. We’ve had to double security, and that’s costing a fortune.”
&
nbsp; I glanced into Jared’s eyes, wishing he had not come along. This information would no doubt create emotional stress, which causes the blood lactate level to rise, which produces fatigue. This could only hurt his game, even for a tough competitor like Jared. I needed to protect him from this kind of stress.
“For your own safety, I advise you to pull out of this tournament,” Diefenbach continued. “You see, I’m not altogether sure we can protect you from these fanatics. We don’t want another Seles incident.”
Before I could respond, Jared said, “We’ll take our chances.”
“We can force you out, for your own protection of course, and we can bar you from other tournaments, next week’s Sony Ericsson, for instance. The ATP Governing Board members were all appalled at your coming out so blatantly at a time when we’re trying to grow this sport by using wholesome publicity.”
Bernard glided up and set a tray on a stand beside our table. One by one, he lifted plates holding glass bowls full of shrimp and cocktail sauce and placed one in front of each of us.
“We’ve experienced those kinds of tactics before,” I continued, “but don’t try that again.”
Diefenbach measured me for a moment, smiled. He smiled again, a full-beamed smile. I remembered that double smile all too well. I saw it on all the tournament officials’ faces as they wrecked our careers the first time. The same thin lips, the same duration, the same degree of forced compassion.
“Trust me, gentlemen. Any action we take will be to guarantee your safety.”
Jared began eating his shrimp. I wondered how he could still have an appetite. Diefenbach ate cautiously, as if the discussion were closed. That spurred my anger, and I decided to bluff.
“We have lawyers. If you bar us from the Sony Ericsson or any other tournament, we’ll have the U.S. Federal Court in California issue a court injunction, which will shut the tournament down, pending a hearing. The California courts frown on discrimination based on sexual orientation. And believe me, we’ll be asking for huge, I mean astronomical, damages. If you think coming out on ESPN is bad publicity, wait until we stop a Masters Cup tournament while we haul the ATP into federal court for discriminatory treatment based on sexual orientation.”
“And those ‘sissies’ you mentioned,” Jared chimed in. “Picture them and hundreds more carrying signs in a protest march outside the front gates of the Sony Ericsson, Cincinnati, and the U.S. Open. The media will have a field day, and sponsors will run for the hills.”
Diefenbach became a wall of silence.
“Naturally,” I continued, “you’ll want to check with your own lawyers to verify that we can persuade the federal court in California to stop a Florida tournament, but I think we both know they can and will. The question is whether we stand a chance of winning damages. What I think is, it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference whether we win or lose. Either way, the ATP will hemorrhage big time.”
Diefenbach cleared his throat, shifted in his chair. “You’re prepared to damage professional tennis worldwide?”
“We’ll do whatever it takes to ensure we get the same treatment as every other player. If that hurts the sport, then the sport needs to bleed.”
A few silent minutes passed as Bernard whisked away the shrimp plates and brought our entrees. My plate held a twelve-inch trout staring at me with an eye as dark and blank as Diefenbach’s at that moment. I didn’t touch my silverware, having lost my appetite. Jared, on the other hand, dug into his beef and chewed while grinning.
Diefenbach stared at me with candid earnestness. For the first time, I thought, I am seeing the real man, stripped of all facades. In a kind of lost-boy voice, he said, “I don’t know what can be done. We can’t go to court, and we can’t keep having this kind of publicity. I’m at a loss.”
“Mr. Diefenbach,” I said, realizing this was the time to compromise, “we don’t want publicity either. It’s a nuisance for everybody. But we can’t control the media. The one thing I know is, we’re not backing down, and the more we fight each other, the more those bloodsucking reporters froth at the mouth.”
“Yes,” he said. “I see your point.” He adjusted the napkin at this throat.
“The question is, can the ATP pressure the media to back off?” I asked, knowing that the answer was assuredly yes.
He frowned, chewed a bite of fish, cuffed his mouth with a corner of his napkin. “I imagine you think you’re rather clever,” he said, resuming his composed facade. “Well, I suppose you are,” he said, after I failed to respond. “If we allow you to play whichever tournaments you can qualify for, will you guarantee to maintain a low profile and avoid the topic of being gay?”
“We can’t control the media. That’s a battle you’ll have to wage. But I guarantee that we’ll keep our mouths shut and focus on tennis.”
“Very well, that’s how we’ll play it. I’ll draft a memo to the Governing Board this afternoon.”
Diefenbach was too busy cutting his fish to notice my astonishment.
“We can play the Sony Ericsson?” Jared asked.
“Yes, of course. I’ve said so. You’ll have to win enough matches here in order to qualify, just like everyone else, but assuming you can do that, yes.” He turned to me. “How’s your fish?”
“Marvelous,” I mumbled, even though I had not eaten a bite.
“And no more bad overrules from redneck chair umpires.” Jared’s voice rose well above the club’s allowed decibel level.
Diefenbach glared at him. “Of course. I’ll include that in the memo.” He smiled and stacked his mouth with fish and peas and crusty bread.
We ate in silence. The piano player switched from Chopin to Mozart. My heart pounded to the livelier melodies.
“Mind if I give you a word of advice?” Diefenbach asked.
“Please do.”
“Don’t push me too far. I’m a stalk of bamboo: I bend with the wind, but I also snap back with stinging force.” He said this with a glint of steel in his eyes.
“You’ve been both kind and fair, Karl,” I said. “Thank you.”
He signaled Bernard for coffee and dessert, then glanced at his watch and said, “I’m afraid that I’m late for an appointment, gentlemen. I’ll have to leave you to the dessert. No, please don’t leave. The soufflé is ambrosial. Stay and enjoy it.” He tore the napkin from his neck. “We must do this again. Next time, bring your protégé—what’s his name, Connor?”
Before I could answer, he had risen from the table and sailed across the dining room, signing the check on his way out.
Bernard glided to our table carrying a silver coffeepot. He asked me a question, but I couldn’t hear him over the cheering voices echoing in my head.
BY THE time we returned to the stadium, Connor’s match with Michael Duras was already deep into the second set. Down a set and a break, Connor fought for his life, but Duras would serve for the match in the next game.
I sat where Connor could see me on the changeover and yelled, “It’s not how you start; it’s how you finish.” He scowled, eyes blazing. I pointed at my head, signaling him to focus. He turned his back on me. The dragon on his shirt glowered at me with cold yellow eyes.
In the next game, he threw himself at the ball with new energy. It seemed that my being there gave him a boost of determination, or maybe fury. Whichever it was, it lifted his game. He broke Duras at love, then held his own service game to go up 6-5. On game point, I leaped to my feet and pounded my heart with a fist. Connor poured all his ferocity into winning the second set tiebreaker. It was a gutsy performance. Duras’s confidence crumbled. He played conservatively, which gave Connor the edge he needed to roll over Duras in the third set.
When Connor stormed off the court, steam seemed to spew from his eyeballs. I met him in the hallway leading to the pressroom. Before I could congratulate him on lifting his game at a critical time, he yelled, “Where the fuck were you?”
“I told you. We were summoned by his majesty.”
“F
uck that! You left me hanging. He wiped the floor with me while you were hobnobbing.”
“Connor, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t leave in the middle of negotiations. I did it for you and Jared. They were threatening to bar Jared from playing.”
“You’re here for me. Comprende? Everything else comes second. Don’t ever do that again!”
He tramped away, leaving me aching to smack his face. I took deep breaths, reminded myself that it was fear talking. He was still so fragile to be burdened by all this pressure.
At the interview desk, his whole demeanor transformed. He smiled, and it seemed genuine enough. He timidly accepted their praise. Roy sat beside him, and he discussed how they had prepared for the match. When asked what went through his head when he turned the match around, he said that he felt the adrenaline of anger flowing through him, and he channeled that anger into seeing the ball. “The shots came out of nowhere,” he added.
Roy talked at length about their strategy for the match. Reporters directed questions at Connor, and each time, Roy cut in to answer. I stood watching flames dancing in Connor’s eyes. Was he still mad at me, I wondered, or was this a new anger bubbling up?
Nobody mentioned the gay issue, so I began to hope that that storm had already blown over.
Chapter 16
THE next morning, we found thousands of gay fans milling around the tennis facility. The Palm Springs gay fans had showed up in force. They were joined by several hundred others who had made the two-hour drive from L.A. The place pulsed with a circuit-party-like atmosphere.
