by Alan Chin
I felt a knife twist in my gut. Until that moment, I would have never believed I could commit suicide. But once I had actually voiced the possibility, and considering my drug-induced mood swings, I realized I was more than capable.
On the other hand, he was right. I was trying to turn back time, an impossible undertaking that could only end in failure. The whole situation somehow felt like an unsolvable puzzle, the sound of one hand clapping.
THE beautiful cloudless day attracted a crowd of gay fans and a few diehard reporters who hadn’t gotten the message. They hovered around our practice court snapping pictures and cheering us on.
That normally put me in a fine mood, but I couldn’t melt the iceberg that had crystallized inside me. I had come to help not only Jared and Connor, but myself. To do that, I needed Jared’s support, which at the moment was nonexistent. He hadn’t said another word since breakfast. He did everything I asked on court, letting me direct the practice, but it felt like screaming into a black hole, because nothing came back.
I noticed him scanning the crowd the same way I did, scrutinizing the two in leisure suits carrying briefcases, a man with a cast on his right arm, the elderly man walking with a limp. In a world of religion-bred hatred, you never knew.
I needed to get these guys working up a good sweat, but I was freefalling into depression.
Finally, Connor shuffled up and put a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, which planet are you on?”
I shook my head and looked up, as if seeing him for the first time that day. “Sorry,” I said. “Let’s move on to cross-court drills. We’ll start with backhand to backhand.”
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Connor said, rolling his eyes. “Whaddaya think we’ve been doing?”
“Sorry.” I glanced up, feeling a stab of angst.
Connor said, “Let’s work on the game plan for my match.”
“Right,” I mumbled, as I pulled my scouting notebook from my bag. “Who are you playing?”
“Shit.” Connor spat the word and turned his back on me.
Laughter erupted behind me. I swiveled my head to see Roy Lin among the spectators flashing a full set of small white teeth. He caught his breath and barked at Connor, “Hey hotshot, how much are you paying your big-time coach? If you double his salary, maybe he’ll remember which tournament you’re playing.”
Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Give it a rest, Dad. Everybody has a bad day.”
“Not on tour,” Roy hissed. His voice sounded deadly. “On tour, you can’t afford bad days. You give it a hundred percent, no matter what.”
“Dad,” Connor said, his voice seething.
“No, Connor,” I stopped him. “He’s right. I’m doing more harm than good.”
Jared ambled over. He still wore that stony, expressionless face, but compassion singed his voice. “Have Harman drive you to the hotel to pack. You fly home tonight.”
“Let me watch you play this afternoon. I’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”
Spencer wheeled me through the fans and into the players’ cafeteria. I bought him a coke and myself a tea. We sat there, silent, until Connor’s match time.
Connor played on an outer court. We wheeled my chair to the edge of the court, four feet behind the chair umpire. Roy, Harman, and Shar sat in the stands directly behind me. A dozen gay fans recognized me and lined up for autographs, which I scribbled onto programs, hats, arms, even tennis balls. They all wanted to touch me, telling me how sorry they were and that they were so very proud I wasn’t letting this stop me. I felt worse with each well-wisher.
Connor followed Argentina’s Alberto Silva onto the court, and, after the coin toss, they began their warm-up. Connor wore his trademark Hollywood dragon shirt, and he had a bounce to his step that made me hopeful. Once the battle began, I had no problem zeroing in on Connor’s play with a critical mind, even though I felt Roy’s laser eyes boring into the back of my skull.
Connor’s demeanor on court had changed. Now that he had regained some confidence, the showman in him reemerged. His swaggering, fist-pumping, tenacious theatrics had the fans cheering. He was becoming the Chinese equivalent of Joshua McEwan, the hot-headed macho Aussie, minus McEwan’s grating edge. He pumped himself up for every point, and the fans adored him. They encouraged his showmanship, and that energized him. He clearly wanted to impress them. That was not a problem as long as he stayed focused.
The real problem showed up late in the second set. Up a comfortable break and serving at 5-2, he began to cramp. His fragile legs had taken a beating during those drawn-out points. His quads and hamstrings simply broke down. He needed a week’s rest and a month of strength training, but that was not an option.
He won the match, but only because he pulled two aces out of his hat to win the last two points. Had Silva returned either ball back into play, he would have easily won the point and eventually the match, because Connor could no longer run.
As we listened to Connor during his post-match interview, Shar told me that every night she massaged his legs for an hour. We discussed his workout schedule, trying to find a way to lessen the load and give his legs a much-needed rest.
Half listening to her and half listening to Connor, I realized that he had become even more adept at handling the media, but his answers were somewhat banal and carried an undertone of boredom. He had learned that the press always asked the same six unimaginative questions after each match: How did you prepare for this match? What was your game plan? What was going through your head when you slumped in the second set? How does it feel to be in the next round? What do you expect in your next match? Do you think you can win this tournament?
The questions seldom varied, and after a few tournaments, most players find it difficult to sound enthusiastic or spontaneous. It was clear that in Connor’s eyes, the media’s sparkle had begun to tarnish.
We waited for Connor to shower and change before we moseyed over to watch Jared’s match against McEwan. As usual, Jared came out wearing all white. His eyes burned with intensity, and his freckles glowed the same color as his bandana and war paint.
The match mutated into a loud, emotional, frustrating dogfight. Right from the first game, McEwan questioned every close line call, arguing with the chair to sway the decision in his favor. That ploy had always gone against Jared, but on clay, the ball leaves a clear mark in the dirt, so every time McEwan questioned a call, the chair umpire inspected the mark before making a valid call. It dawned on me then that part of Jared’s confidence on clay came from knowing that the linespeople couldn’t cheat him out of points.
Jared won the first set in a tiebreaker, and McEwan smashed his racket in a violent outburst. Jared remained cool, oblivious to McEwan’s gamesmanship. While we waited for the second set to begin, Connor leaned into me and asked in a voice low enough that Roy couldn’t hear, “What’s up with you, and why is Jared flying you home?”
“Look, Connor, I’m not discussing Jared’s and my problems with you, okay?”
“I have a right to know. You brought that weak stuff to the court today and made me look like a fool in front of my dad.”
He had stood up to his father, and I let him down. Of course he had a right to know. I took a deep breath. At the same time, I stared at Jared, seeing the war paint slashed across his cheeks and that frightening calm deep inside him.
I had held so much inside ever since the shooting, and now I didn’t know how to put my exasperation into words that made any sense. I realized that Shar’s advice to seek mental therapy had been right on target. It was a mistake to come here in such fragile condition. Connor’s eyes were liquid clear, no pity and no judgment, only a desire to understand.
Okay, I thought, I can do this.
As Jared began serving the second set, I recounted Jared’s rejection, how being with him felt like screaming into a black hole. The silence created feelings of loneliness and uselessness.
Connor listened without interrupting. Talking about it helped,
and I surprised myself by saying much more than I probably should have; what started as a trickle began to pour. When I wound down and came to a stop, I saw the scoreboard: 5-4 with McEwan serving to stay in the match. I had talked for almost an hour.
We watched in silence until the game went to deuce.
Connor said, “My gut says that the reason he’s freaked out is that he’s embarrassed about being coached by someone in a wheelchair. You know, deep down he believes you’re inept.”
“Maybe. Who knows?”
“Stop coaching him. Just work with me.”
Even though Jared had a match point, I stared at Connor.
“You heard me. Stop kowtowing to him and show him you can do the job by coaching me. When I kick his ass on court, he’ll know it was because of you.”
I smiled, liking his arrogance. But I shook my head and watched Jared win the point and the match. Cheers erupted from several hundred fans. Jared raised his arms in victory, but he didn’t look our way, didn’t acknowledge us.
Connor slid his arm across my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. He whispered, “Even if I don’t kick his ass, he’ll know that you plan to get on with your life, with or without his approval, which is exactly what you need to do.”
His words rang true in my heart. I glanced away, knowing what I needed to do but also knowing that I did not have the courage to do it. But I had enough courage to stay there and keep trying to help. I would not fly home a failure with my tail between my useless legs.
We’re just starting the third set, I thought. It’s time to dig deep, not give up.
That’s when Shar leaned over, and her voice was all honey and soothing. “I told you that you need psychological counseling to help you through this. Well, guess what? Jared needs it as badly as you. You’re both floundering in an emotional storm. You need to take a break, go somewhere away from all this and get help, together. I mean, for Christ’s sake, darling, it took Seles years to return. You guys charged back in a matter of months as if nothing had happened. Give yourself a break and get help.”
Of course she was right. We were both unstable, and understandably so. But I knew Jared would not walk away from a shot at the French Open, and I needed to stay with him. I gave her a sad smile and patted her hand. “Okay. After the French.”
“That’s a month away. What makes you think you two can survive that long?”
I wasn’t sure at all.
While Roy and Harman went to retrieve the van, Spencer wheeled me to the players’ lounge entrance behind Connor and Shar. Our men were not scheduled to play doubles that afternoon, so we talked about where to go for an early dinner.
Although no one actually voiced it, we all felt that if our luck held, Jared and Connor would meet in the final, and the anticipation of that had us as giddy as schoolgirls. When Jared emerged from the players’ lounge doorway, we were all in high spirits. Even he wore an angelic smile, as if he were thinking the same thing. But when his eyes fell on me, his smile dissolved.
Something inside my chest plummeted. A heartbeat later, anger rose up in its place. If I’d had legs, I would have bitch-slapped his frown into next week. Against my will, I swallowed, absorbing his silent censure, reminding myself of what Shar had told me about Jared needing counseling too.
Over the next three days, Jared and Connor fought their way into the semi-finals of both singles and doubles. Jared continued his silent campaign, refusing to acknowledge me. I worked around his attitude by focusing on Connor. The others—Spencer, Shar, Harman—wallowed in an embarrassed silence of their own, tiptoeing around us.
Roy, on the other hand, kept to himself. We only saw him at breakfast and dinner. As the situation tensed, I wrestled with depression and doubt, but there was no squelching the thrill of seeing both my athletes working toward the final. They demolished their opponents, playing like they were born on the red dirt. Connor’s legs continued to break down during long matches, but he somehow found the heart to play through the pain.
It seemed, however, that our run had come to an end. In the semifinals, Jared would play Christopher Drake, the number one player in the world and arguably the best male player of all time. Drake hadn’t lost a match to anyone but Jose Lamas all year on any surface. He had the kind of smooth, effortless, all-court game that the rest of the pack only dreamed of achieving in some future life.
Connor’s situation looked equally hopeless. His semifinal opponent was the reigning king of clay, Jose Lamas, who hadn’t lost a match on clay in two years. It was difficult to imagine Connor beating the hard-hitting superathlete on any surface, but on clay it was impossible. Smart money bet heavily on a Drake/Lamas final, and that is exactly where I placed my chips too. I hoped that my boys would give them a damn good fight, something that would boost their confidence and help them gear up for the doubles final so they walked away feeling good about their losses.
CONNOR narrowly won the first set against Lamas, 7-6. I was thrilled, but I knew the match was far from over. When Connor cruised into a one-break lead in the second set, I began to believe he would win. My pulse raced, and sweat covered my upper lip. But two games later, he began to cramp. He lost the second set because of his hampered mobility. The trainer came out at each changeover to massage his legs, which kept him going.
Early in the third set, he worked through the pain and began to move again, but he had lost the momentum. Connor finished the match, but he lost 3-6 in the third set. The worst part was that his legs were done in. Sadly, we had to pull out of the doubles rather than risk an injury that could sideline him for months.
We were all crushed. I don’t think any of us thought he had a Chinaman’s chance before the match, but after winning that set and a break, we became optimistic. After shaking hands, he limped to his chair, sat down, and pulled a towel over his head while Lamas took his bows. I wondered which hurt worse, his legs or his heart, but deep down I knew. At the same time, playing that well against Lamas was huge, and once we conditioned his legs, nobody would touch him on clay.
JARED and Drake squared off like gladiators with neither man breaking serve in the first set. The points developed into long, grueling tussles that had both players scrambling and sliding on every area of the court. The tiebreaker went to an electrifying 12-10, won by Drake. The second set carbon-copied the first, except that Jared won the tiebreaker 16-14. The match had stretched over two hours in the hot sun, but both players looked fresh entering the third set.
Everybody was on his or her feet for most of the last set. Jared and Drake achieved the kind of hard-fought, brilliant shot-making that you normally see once or twice in a match, but they played that way on almost every point. The tension heightened with each game. It was like watching Seabiscuit and War Admiral racing down the homestretch, nose and nose, each one expending every last iota of strength and heart. My body rocked with spasms.
Victory came down to a deciding third set tiebreaker, which was the only fitting end to such a gloriously fought battle. I saw something in that tiebreaker that I didn’t believe. Jared had gone toe-to-toe with the best player on the planet for over three hours, elevating his game to impossible levels just to stay even, but in the tiebreaker, he lifted his game, and Drake faltered.
Goosebumps enveloped me. I couldn’t utter a sound as I watch Jared win every point in the tiebreaker. For those incredible seven points, Jared lifted his game to a level where it was literally impossible to play better, and for me at least, it exemplified the truest testament to what the human will is capable of.
THE next day, a Sunday, Jared played Lamas in the final. Spencer warmed him up before the match while I supervised. Jared still wouldn’t acknowledge my presence. I felt excited and furious. He was about to play the most important match of his life, and he refused to share it with me.
The bookmakers gave three-to-one odds that Lamas would pulverize Jared. As predicted, the match was quickly won, but Jared rose victorious, felling Lamas in straight sets, 6-3, 7-5. The crowd, ma
ny of whom were obviously gay, went ballistic as Jared smashed a crosscourt winner on match point.
Lamas seemed shell-shocked that he had lost to a fairy on his best surface. I saw something in his eyes, something broken, and I felt a stab of empathy. I knew that sometimes when you’re riding a wave of confidence and your expectations are in the stratosphere, a bad loss can crush your heart, and you are never the same after that. Lamas’s eyes held that look.
Jared glowed with a radiance that I’d never seen before. Standing in the center of the court with his arms held high, he basked in the crowd’s adoration. He turned in slow circles, making eye contact with seemingly everybody in the stadium, everyone except me. My elation nose-dived into something painful.
During Jared’s victory speech, he congratulated Lamas for putting up a great fight. He thanked the tournament organizers, the sponsors, the crowd, even the ball kids. He didn’t mention me or any of the others in our camp. We all felt slighted.
By the time Jared had finished his interviews, showered, and changed, the doubles final was deep into the second set. The stadium was packed. Only a few people wandered toward the parking lot. Our little group huddled outside the players’ lounge. The others moved from foot to foot, smiling and patting each other on the backs. I stared at the setting sun as it dipped toward the rooftops. The sinking feeling in my gut grew worse.
Jared finally emerged wearing a sports shirt and jeans. He held his trophy in his right arm and his tennis bag slung over his left shoulder. A few reporters had hung around to get an interview, but Jared brushed passed them. They had also wanted to interview me, but I had begged off, saying that Jared was the man of the hour.
He strolled toward us with a proud smile. When our eyes met, as before, the smile melted. He turned and walked back to answer questions from reporters that he had already bypassed, making us wait another ten minutes. My stomach folded in on itself, knotting into a heavy solid mass. I had to do something, anything, to change our situation. If things kept going as they were, the pain would consume me. When Jared finally waved off the reporters and approached our group, I saw with suicidal clarity exactly what I must do. I looked him straight in the eye and said:
