Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  My eyes watered. I wanted to scream at him, scream anything. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Then something peculiar happened: he smiled. It was that same comical smile that I saw as we were falling together at the shooting.

  He stepped sideways, and I realized that he had been blocking my view of a wheelchair, a sporty model specifically designed for playing tennis. It had a lightweight titanium frame and thick wheels that were narrow at the hips and flared outwards so they didn’t get in the way of swinging arms, and they gave a wide stance so that even I couldn’t tip it over. Its front wheels were tiny and built for quick maneuvering. It had a seatbelt to keep me from falling out no matter how far I leaned for a ball. Wrapped around the stubby backrest was a canary yellow ribbon with a huge bow, and a note was pinned to it that read, “We Love You.”

  “You need a better chair if you intend to keep coaching,” Jared said. His voice broke, and I knew he had choked up, probably crying, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the chair to see. It was the most amazingly beautiful thing I’d ever seen—excluding Jared, of course. My head went numb. I literally couldn’t form a single thought. I could only stare dumbly at that magnificent chair.

  Spencer ran over, leaned down, and hugged me. “Ready?”

  That heavy thing lodged in my chest suddenly quadrupled in size. I looked up into his beaming face and nodded. He pushed me toward it, and as he did, he told me how Jared had searched everywhere in Rome, but couldn’t find one, so he had this one flown in from London. It was top of the line.

  As he pushed me next to the chair, Jared leaned down to help. I threw my arms around his neck and hugged as he lifted me. We stood like that, nailed together, squeezing the life out of each other while merging into one being again. The crowd began to clap. Most weren’t sure what was going on, but it didn’t matter.

  “I love you,” I croaked.

  “I know. Don’t ever leave me again.”

  I nodded my head against his shoulder and turned to dry my eyes with my sleeve. Spencer ripped the ribbon from my new chair, and Jared lowered me onto the seat. It felt like riding on the back of a Tomahawk missile. Spencer handed me my racket and gave me a push. My chair whispered onto the court, gliding like a dream.

  Connor hit a ball toward me, and I was on it in a flash. The chair seemed to respond on its own. After five minutes, it had become a part of me, and I couldn’t fathom how I’d ever managed to play in my old chair. Jared stepped onto the court and began hitting balls. He hit just out of my reach so that I had to scramble to reach each ball. It was fun, as fun as any other time I had played tennis when I had legs.

  Once again, I played the game I loved with the man I loved—the movement, the feel of the ball on my racket, the sound of the ball being struck, the hustle to get into position for the next ball—it was a ballet, albeit a little slower paced than before, but equally as enjoyable.

  But I caught myself. Here we were only hours before the big final, and we were goofing off. Time to get back to work, I thought, to ensure they both get a proper warm-up. I opened up my heart, put this new joy inside a treasure chest, and closed the lid. I became the Parris Island drill sergeant once again.

  As I barked out orders, Jared and Connor gave each other sideways glances while trying to suppress their smiles. I sailed off the court and let them warm each other up, as we had always done. They responded enthusiastically, and a surge of excitement ran through all of us, like an electric current flowing through metal rods all linked together. Even Roy, Shar, Harman, and Spencer felt it.

  It was more than preparing for the final. It was being a team again, like having all the right numbers pop up together on the winning lottery ticket.

  AS MY players showered and changed, the rest of us made our way into the stadium. I was reluctant to leave my shiny new chair, but I wanted a ringside seat, so Harman and Spencer carried me down the steps to the coach’s box. We all crammed together and watched the stadium fill to capacity.

  The gay men came out in force. One group waved rainbow flags and camped it up for the television cameras. Their pride at having one of their own in a final was contagious.

  The players emerged to a thunderous ovation. Jared wore all white except for his red bandana and his war paint. Connor sauntered across the court with the embroidered dragon shimmering down his back. They were both intimidating and ravishing. At the net, waiting for the coin toss, Jared bounced on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter ready to brawl. One look at Connor’s face showed that he got the message loud and clear.

  I hardly took a breath during the warm-up. By the time the match began, I felt dizzy, on the brink of fainting. I made myself breathe as I watched Connor execute our game plan flawlessly. He broke Jared in the first game and never looked back. Even though Jared played well, controlled the points and fought hard, he didn’t win a game in the first set.

  In the second set, I watched Jared lose another game, and my heart sank. His wheels were turning, trying to figure a way to turn things around, but I knew he couldn’t do it as long as Connor stuck to our game plan. Jared couldn’t blast his way through this match. He could only hope that Connor would lose his concentration, which was possible but unlikely. Not this time, I thought. I had prepared him too well.

  Therein lay the rub, the turning knife in my gut. Jared needed to win this match in order to earn an automatic entry into the French Open, the one thing in the world beyond me that mattered to him, and in my selfish bid to get him back, I had effectively robbed him of the opportunity. And with Diefenbach resolved to derail him, this could very well be his only opportunity ever. My mouth went dry, and I became nauseated, feeling like a traitor as I watched him lose game after game.

  Would he blame me? It didn’t matter: I blamed myself. My head sank until my chin rested on my chest.

  Jared won a game, then another, but Connor held serve to go up 5-2. That’s when it happened: a miracle. At least I thought it was a miracle at the time. As Jared served to stay in the match, Connor’s right leg cramped up as tight as a steel rod. The combination of all his hard running and the stress of being so close to winning broke down his fragile legs. He limped to the chair and called for a medical time-out. The trainer gave him pills, water, a leg rub. The match continued with Connor still limping. He couldn’t really move, at least not like he needed to.

  Jared seized control, easily winning the next three games to even the second set at 5-5. Connor’s other leg cramped, and it was back to the trainer. During the first cramp, I had wondered if Connor was throwing the match to ensure Jared qualified for the French, but I now saw the agony etched across his face. The cramping was real, and it was costing him the set, but there was a slim chance that he could work through the pain in the third set and still win.

  That was when it hit me. This was no accident. Once Jared had figured out that he couldn’t overpower Connor, he began to run Connor side to side, front to back, run, slide, run, slide, run, run, run. He had known how to exploit Connor’s weakness just as well as Connor knew how to exploit his. As understanding blossomed into admiration, I heard the chair umpire announce that Connor had withdrawn due to severe cramping.

  Everyone in our players’ box floundered in a jumble of emotions. Jared walked over to shake hands, but instead he bent and they hugged for a long, emotional few moments. The spectators cheered. I told myself to be happy. Both my players would play the French, and both had a legitimate shot at winning.

  Jared had ridden a seventeen-match winning streak that earned him two tier-two and one tier-one titles. That pushed him into the upper echelons of the game. He was now seeded sixty-fourth in the world. By ATP rules, they were required to let him play the French. We couldn’t play the Madrid Open because the draws were already set, but we would play the French. Jared had beaten the game’s top players, and in doing so, had beaten Diefenbach and the other bureaucrats as well.

  OUR last day in Rome, a Monday, we wandered down ancient streets, sightseeing. Jared
and I were anxious to see Michelangelo’s Moses, the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel, and the handful of Caravaggio paintings that hung in churches sprinkled across the city.

  On our way to the Vatican, we sailed across a scorching piazza that boasted a Bernini fountain ringed with outdoor cafés and colorful umbrellas to protect their patrons from Sol’s heat. There were only a handful of people in the piazza: a lesbian couple strolling with their arms around each other, two young children pulling at the arms of an old man while begging him to hurry, and a group of Korean tourists snapping pictures in front of the fountain.

  Uncle Harman finally pulled his eyes from his Frommer’s Guide and pointed to the crumbling baroque church that towered above the other gray stone buildings. “That church has a Caravaggio, the Madonna dei Pellegrini.”

  “I’m game,” I said.

  “I’m for getting a gelato while you check out Madonna what’s-her-name,” Connor said.

  The others opted for a café. They trooped to the closest umbrellas and huddled around two shaded tables. Only Jared nodded at the church. He pulled me up the stone steps backwards, and we passed into the sanctuary’s cool twilight.

  That time of the morning, there were few worshipers in the pews. One gray-haired woman, on her knees and dressed in black. She bowed over a prie-dieu and performed her devotions at the first chapel on the left. Two chapels away stood twelve tourists gazing at the Madonna dei Pellegrini. Four spotlights illuminated the painting, and the tourists reminded me of apostles gathered around a shimmering Jesus ascending to heaven.

  Jared wheeled me across the cracked mosaic floor as I absorbed the splendor of the imposing domed ceiling supported by massive columns. At the front altar, an ornately vested priest lit candles, and beside him, a cloud of incense billowed up and dissipated through the cavernous cathedral, giving the air a sweet, sacrificial odor.

  The cluster of tourists retreated a few steps so that Jared could wheel me to the front of the chapel for an unobstructed view.

  I gazed up at the painting with the same rapture as I’d seen on their faces. The standing Madonna held an overly large child in her arms while two elderly peasants bowed at her feet. The detail was awesome, right down to the dirt on the peasants’ toenails. Caravaggio’s masterful use of light gave the picture a realism that drew me into the scene, as if I were kneeling beside the peasants. I could almost smell the musty odor of the Madonna’s robes.

  The spotlights suddenly shut off, and the chapel fell into darkness. The lights were controlled by a meter at the side of the chapel that must be fed coins to keep the lights on. I sat in the dark, waiting to see who would feed the meter. Neither Jared nor I had any coins, so we watched in disappointment as the entire group of tourists marched away, leaving us to the cool dim.

  We waited, hoping others would come to feed the meter. Jared knelt beside me and took my hand. Minutes passed. The coolness felt wonderful, and somewhere behind the altar, a boys’ choir began a Gregorian chant. Their high-pitched harmony filled the cathedral and fused with the incense-laced air. Over the voices, I heard Jared utter a deep sigh.

  “In Florida, I should have backed down,” he said, his voice scarcely a whisper. “I put you in that chair.”

  “Honey, it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you hated my guts.”

  “You’ve got to let go of this guilt.”

  “That’s the reason I tried to send you home. I couldn’t stand seeing you in that chair, knowing I put you there. I died every time you looked at me.”

  His voice broke with emotion. I knew he had to talk, get it out, work past it. The pressure had built to the point where it had to spill over. There in the darkness, I let him tell it all: the pain, the fear, the guilt. It surged out.

  “I’m so ashamed. I wanted to lock you away because I couldn’t stand seeing you like this. And then when I saw you tumbling over on court, over and over, not giving up, I realized how strong you are, stronger than I’ll ever be, and pitying you was a waste of time.”

  I pulled him closer, pressing my face into the soft curve where his neck merged with his shoulder blade. We held each other in the dim stillness until I heard footsteps approach, the clunk, clunk of coins dropping into the meter. The chapel blazed with light again. I glanced at Jared’s face. Two wet trails streaked his cheeks. We gazed up at the Madonna holding her baby.

  I wanted to tell him it was okay, but I knew that words could not heal his torment. He needed to work it out himself, internally. He would. I was sure of it.

  We both would, together.

  Chapter 26

  DIEFENBACH did stop Jared from playing the Madrid Open, which unwittingly turned into a boon. Jared had been peaking nonstop for four weeks and, although he seemed fit, his leaden eyes revealed his exhaustion. The physical demands of daily clay court matches coupled with our off-court emotional battle had taken a toll.

  Connor could play, but I decided to pull him out to give his legs a rest. Not playing the Open would give them a two-week breather, ensuring they would be fresh for the French.

  I kept wondering how Jared would play at the French Open. He had carried that load of guilt inside of him, and it had created a blinding rage that had spurred him on to become a top player, using his self-hate to crush his opponents. But now that he had talked it out, he seemed to have purged that rage. Could he still play with the same intensity? I was dying to know, but I wouldn’t find out until he played again.

  We flew to Spain for our respite. During those weeks off, I planned to work my boys only enough to keep them sharp. We would drill at about sixty-five percent of their normal practice and play level, keeping them honed but also allowing them to recuperate with plenty of good food and leisure.

  Harman, efficient as always, found a villa for hire seventy-five miles northeast of Barcelona. It dominated a bluff covered with olive trees and overlooked the Mediterranean. The stately blue and white house was built solid to withstand the winter storms that pounded onto shore. It had a lovely red-carpeted staircase floating upward in swan-like curves. There were sixteen high-ceilinged rooms, each with a view of the water. The floors were made of honey-colored oak. Although each room had electricity, they used oil lamps to light the rooms, which gave the place a dreamy glow. And best of all, it had two clay courts just up from a white-sand beach.

  To get to the Villa Baraka, we drove through the nearest town, Palamos—a colorful community at the edge of the sea. From a distance, the village roofs resembled a rust-colored cape spread on the shore between olive orchards and silvery-blue grape arbors terracing the hillsides.

  We arrived in the early evening, driving a Volkswagen van with tinted windows, and were ushered into the Villa Baraka via the front door, passing through a spacious hall that led to a drawing room. A large oval table dominated the center of the room, and armchairs and sofas upholstered in silk, with that sepia color silk takes on with age, were grouped around the walls. A large and lovely landscape hung over one sofa, its massive gilt frame glowing softly in the low light. The room smelled the way I imagined a Turkish bazaar must smell: incense, dust, burnt charcoal, and wood (cedar? mahogany?) and underlying it all, the sweet scent of cut flowers slowly decomposing.

  We were received by a flatteringly courteous Baroness von Friedemann. The Baroness, in her mid-nineties and weighing no more than a handful of feathers, wore British tweeds, a double strand of lustrous pearls, and, over her ashen-silver head, a colorful lilac scarf that seemed as sheer and frail as her body. She spoke with an Austrian accent and was still handsome at her advanced age: high cheekbones, paper-fine translucent skin, and lips that looked like carved ivory. Time had fashioned her face into a benevolent mask, reducing it to an essence, as a grape becomes a raisin. Her pale gray eyes captured my attention, intelligent, proud, and hard as cut diamonds.

  “Welcome,” she said, “to the Villa Baraka. Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  “Pleasant enough,” Roy Lin said.
/>   “Did you fly or come by ship?”

  “We flew,” Roy continued. “A good flight.” For Roy, that meant a short flight.

  “You must be famished. There is plenty to eat, and you have time to freshen up before dinner.”

  The estate had no butler but rather a reedy twenty-year-old, obsequiously obliging houseboy named Alma, who had emigrated from Tangiers. His lean face was the color of lightly creamed coffee, and his eyes vaguely recalled the Moorish conquerors. He dressed in Arabian style robes of white linen, with a headcloth held in place by what I later learned was a ring made from camel skin. He wore no shoes, which allowed him to move about the house as silently as a sea breeze.

  We had the Villa Baraka and the beach to ourselves, and if we wanted some nightlife, Palamos was a forty-minute stroll down the road.

  We arrived well past our normal dinner hour, but the Spanish tend to eat late, so we had time to retire to our rooms before dinner. Each couple had their own bedroom, including Spencer and Harman, who shared the small corner room at the end of the hall. Our room was airy, with a huge four-poster cherry-wood bed, bare oak floors, and two French doors that opened onto a balcony that overlooked the Mediterranean.

  Since the guest bedrooms were upstairs, Jared carried me to our room. Alma deposited our bags inside the doorway. He moved to the dresser and lit an oil lamp. Orange-yellow light flickered on the walls. He smiled and bowed as he closed the bedroom door on his way out.

  I instantly loved our room’s rustic beauty. Jared eased me onto the bed and flung the French doors wide open. The salt-misty breeze flowed in to mingle with the scent of white roses standing in a vase on the chest of drawers.

  Jared moved around the room, studying every detail. My eyes followed him, loving his inner calm, his manliness, his strength. He turned to go downstairs and bring up my wheelchair, but I reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him onto the bed.