He stopped at the big steel gates. There was only one button to press and he pressed it. ‘Hi,’ said the nearest gatepost. ‘My name is Sandy. How may I help you?’
With some embarrassment he identified himself to the gatepost and the voice said, ‘Mr Stegman is expecting you. Please wait for your escort.’
While he waited he looked around. Ahead of him he could see a large ranch-type building with tennis courts on one side and what looked like an aircraft hangar on the other. This, he was later to discover, housed four indoor courts each with a different surface.
His escort arrived, semaphored him into a parking space, opened his car door, and said, ‘Hi, I’m Denise. Please come with me.’
The way she moved reminded him of one of the big cats; a leopard or a young lioness. She was just under six feet tall, had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and a skin that glowed with health. The muscles in her long legs rippled and flowed in the most amazing way.
They entered the split-level building through doors which Denise opened with a plastic key-card. Above the doors were the words, emblazoned in gold paint; ‘World harmony through tennis’. The receptionist signed him in, gave him a visitor’s tag and asked him to take a seat.
The place was all stainless steel and potted greenery. The dominant colours were purple and gold. People flowed in and out continuously. They wore tracksuits in what he considered to be unalluring colour combinations, carried nylon bags on their shoulders and bundles of racquets under their arms. Through the huge glass windows he could see a dozen all-weather courts – some concrete, some clay – all in use. There was a constant stream of announcements: soft xylophone triplets followed by calls for David or Serge or Natasha or Mel to go to court number so-and-so. It reminded him of an airport.
He sat back and examined the foyer more closely. It was dominated by a large painting of a man in a purple and gold tracksuit, who he assumed was the founder of Tennis World, Lionel Stegman. Underneath, on a wooden panel, were the words, ‘Release! Reinforce! Encourage! Succeed!’
In front of Henry was a low glass table on which there was a pile of magazines and books. One book was titled Psychological Motivations in Sport by Lionel Stegman. Henry opened it at random. He saw a sub-heading, Implosive Therapy, and read, ‘Implosive therapy (Stampfl & Levis, 1967) is a flooding procedure that adds to the learning-based extinction model concepts derived from psychodynamic theories. The most important of these is the avoidance serial cue hierarchy . . .’
He frowned and turned a few pages. He read, ‘Intervention directed toward the modification of affect-eliciting cognitions . . .’
He closed the book with a snap.
‘Mr Stegman will see you now,’ a voice said, and in a matter of seconds Henry was in the Presence.
Stegman’s office reminded him of the interior of a modern church. The wooden ceiling soared upwards, the upholstery and curtains were mauve, and there was soft piped music. The Founder was seated at a white desk underneath a series of photographs showing young men and women receiving large silver cups and salvers on courts throughout the world. Henry assumed they were clients.
Stegman was what his portrait showed, a big man and deeply tanned, with a bony, coarse face. He was dressed in his purple and gold tracksuit, his neck was decorated with several strands of gold chain, and on his feet he wore heavy Nike tennis shoes. His hair was thick and white and Henry remembered that he was nicknamed the Silver Fox.
He waved Henry to a low chair on the opposite side of his desk – cheap psychology, Henry thought – and said, ‘So you want to talk about Jason.’ He had a marked South African accent.
Henry had explained the reasons for his visit in the telephone call setting up the meeting.
‘You said his family had abandoned him?’ Stegman picked up a small replica of a tennis racquet done in silver so fine it looked as though it had been spun, and began to fiddle with it.
‘Let me put it this way,’ Henry said. ‘He needs a friend.’
‘Jason always needed a friend. I was that friend. I was his father and his mother. I was his family. That is how we operate. I give my all and that is what I demand in return.’
He had a way of speaking as though addressing an audience.
‘This is a place of commitment,’ he went on. ‘A place of dedication. Those who dedicate their lives to tennis are welcome; those who do not have no place here. I am a bringer forth. I bring forth tennis. I release the tennis within the individual. Release! Reinforce! Encourage! Succeed!’
He began to stride up and down the room swinging the tiny racquet as though making forehand winners from the base-line.
‘Those are our four key words.’
‘To bring about world harmony,’ Henry said.
‘World harmony through tennis. Yes. Have you seen my book?’
‘I was especially interested in the cognitive aspects of implosive therapy.’
The Founder paused, frowned, and said, ‘I see.’
‘And in the flooding procedure that adds to the learning-based extinction model concepts.’
‘You’re interested in sports psychology?’
‘Aren’t we all part of a great sporting family? What brought you to sports psychology, if I may ask?’
‘I come from the dark and mysterious continent. I am a child of the bush and the jungle, the mountains and the trees; an inheritor of the great skies. I grew up with the Bushmen; guardians of the holistic integral.’
‘I must have misread your biographical notes,’ Henry said. ‘I thought you grew up in Johannesburg.’
The Founder scowled at him. ‘Only partly. You won’t find everything in the newspaper cuttings, you know. There is an inner life that is private, untouched . . . untouchable.’
‘Tell me about Jason. His behaviour on court was pretty terrible, wasn’t it?’
‘That depends how you define terrible. He won tournaments. He might have won many more. He might have been up there with the real giants. But—’
‘But?’
‘Burn out.’
‘Burn out?’
‘Whatever fire glowed within burned out early. Jason was a disappointment to me.’
‘But wasn’t he your first great success?’
‘What? No, no, not at all. There were others . . .’ He waved the racquet vaguely. Then he said with irritation, ‘Are you a tennis expert, Mr . . . uh . . . Vernon?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well, I am. And let me tell you something; when Jason came to me after his father died I found a personality that was in conflict. He was a manufactured young man. He was also a manufactured player. My job was to release the man and so release the tennis.’
‘And did you?’
‘Top ten on the computer for two consecutive years. Semis in two grand slams. Davis cup. The Diamond Challenge. I made him—’
‘What he is?’
‘You know, Mr Vernon, I don’t think I like you. You come to me for help but your manner is confrontational.’
‘My apologies. That must be the old legal experience.’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘We were talking earlier about Jason’s behaviour on court.’
‘You were talking about that. But since you ask let me say this: when his father was alive he was inhibited. I broke down those inhibitions.’
‘And released whatever was inside.’
‘I erased what was there so I could begin again.’
‘The tabula rasa.’
‘The what?’
‘The clean slate.’
‘I like that phrase. I may use it in my next book.’ He asked Henry to spell it for him and was writing it down when he stopped. ‘One moment. It sounds as though you are suggesting . . . you’re not suggesting I’m to blame for what has happened, are you? Because I find that impertinent, and anyway you don’t know Jason as I do. On the surface he appears a big simple guy who loves to hit balls, but underneath is another Jason and underneath that a different one a
gain—’
‘Like peeling an onion.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Well, Jason knew what he was doing all the time. Those losses of temper, that bad behaviour, was all calculated. And if you think I’m going to come to Jason’s assistance over this then you’re mistaken. You see, it’s not the first time.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Ask Jason. Ask him about a beach party in Cape Town after he’d won the Diamond Challenge.’
‘Why don’t you tell me? Jason isn’t talking any more.’
‘History repeats itself, Mr Vernon, you can be sure of that.’
‘Attempted rape? Assault? What?’
‘She was fifteen. It cost a great deal of money. I know, because I had the dirty job of fixing things.’ He pointed the little racquet at Henry. ‘You won’t find that in your newspaper cuttings.’
*
‘Did they give you a diamond?’ Billy said.
‘Of course not.’
‘Why call it that then?’
‘They’ve got to call it something. Anyway South Africa produces diamonds and the main diamond company put up the money.’
‘How much?’
‘A million rand.’
‘What’s that in real money?’
‘It varies. Divide by five.’
‘Two hundred grand! Jesus! You made that much?’
‘Sounds a lot, but when you’ve paid your coach and your agent and your physio and your manager, etc, etc, then it’s not so much really.’
‘Of course it is! You want some coffee?’
‘No,’ Jason said. ‘Do you?’
‘Two sugars. Don’t make it sickly.’
It was evening and the coffee machine was working on the landing. When he came back, Billy said, ‘Come on, I feel like a story. Tell me one.’
‘What about?’
‘Anything. My First Fuck, by Jason Tennisplayer.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Come on, Jason, stop being such a prick. We’ve got the whole night to get through.’
‘I don’t want to talk—’
‘Not about that. Tell me . . . oh, I know . . . tell me about the bloody Diamond Challenge. Tell me how you won; how you became a champion. You don’t have to tell me any secrets. Just tell me something.’
‘I don’t feel—’
‘Jason, what are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’m your friend.’
‘Right, and friends tell stories, so get on with it.’
*
Heat.
Table Bay like a sheet of glass. Cape Town hotter than anything he could remember as a child, hotter than the Australian Open on the rubber surface in Melbourne, hotter than New York, hotter than the Davis Cup tie in Rome.
Just outside the city they said animals were dying; dropping dead in their tracks. In the city it was people.
39 . . . 40 . . . 41 . . . 42 . . . The Mercury crept upwards.
The Diamond Stadium was under Table Mountain. There was a wind but no air. People called it a ‘berg’ wind, but it came not so much from mountains as from deserts: the Kalahari, the Namib, Bushmanland. It was so dry and hot that in a couple of hours lips cracked and bled.
Margaret wouldn’t leave the hotel room. She had pulled the bed near the air-conditioner and lay there with her magazine.
He must be mad, she said. Crazy to play in this.
It was how he made the money. Their money.
Well, she wouldn’t come if he paid her all the money.
They argued most of the time now. He knew she resented what had become of her life, her career, but she was his talisman. She and Stegman always sat together. When he was on the point of tanking he looked up and saw her and went on and won – maybe in some way he wasn’t proud of, but he won.
He begged. He told her he needed her.
She repeated what she’d said. She wasn’t bloody going out in this.
It was the final.
She knew it was the fucking final. She wasn’t going out. Period.
And so he had waited in the lobby of the hotel for the courtesy car and Stegman had joined him.
Where was Margaret?
When Jason told him Stegman said he’d bring her down. But when he came back he was alone and he was flushed and angry.
If she was his wife, he said, he’d get rid of her.
Jason was playing Paco Berrio in the final. The local newspapers said Jason had only been a kid when Berrio was world number one. They said it was Superbrat versus Mr Niceguy. They said Jason was the best prospect in the world. They said Jason tanked. That Berrio had said so. They said Jason had called him an old man. They said it was a grudge match.
None of this was true.
The stadium was hotter than the streets; hotter than anything Jason had ever experienced. The final started at 2 pm, the hottest part of the day.
Stegman was still angry. He sat with Jason in their private locker room. He wasn’t going to tell him anything more. Not going to say another word. He’d said his say about the holistic integral. About extrinsic rewards and intrinsic motivation. About cohesion. About cognitive-behavioural interventions. He was only going to give him the four key words: Release! Reinforce! Encourage! Succeed!
And then he was going to send him on court to beat the shit out of Berrio any way he could.
Oh boy, did Jason need the any-way-he-could psychology!
The heat brought him to his knees and before he could say ‘conditioned anxiety response’, never mind operate his game plan, he was a set down and losing the second.
He looked up but she wasn’t there.
Stegman was in his purple and gold tracksuit; his face like stone. This was his country; his humiliation.
What the hell if he lost? Jason thought. What did it matter in the final analysis of the holistic fucking integral?
Berrio was belting the ball like he was twenty. Jason couldn’t hit a thing. The court seemed smaller on Berrio’s side; bigger on his. It changed when they changed.
Then there was a close volley from Berrio, very, very close. But it wasn’t called.
What?
The line judge had his hands to the ground. No fault.
What?
The umpire was a coloured man. A coloured man in South Africa. There was fear in his eyes. No overrule.
It was out! You know what out is? You know how to spell out? O-U-T.
No overrule. Please continue, Mr Newman.
Mister. You call me mister, you understand?
That’s what I said, Mister.
You calling me a liar?
He was not calling him anything he just wanted him to continue.
Berrio coming up to the chair. Hey, man, what the hell goes on?
Apologise, says Jason Tennisplayer.
Mr Newman, I am starting the watch.
Then Jason said something. And he spat.
No one agreed on the words. Those sitting near said the word ‘black’ was heard. And ‘bastard’. Later Jason denied this. No one was sure anyway.
But the splash of spit on the umpire’s shoe could not be denied.
They called the referee.
Every player spits, Jason said. In this heat mouths grew scummy. He didn’t mean to hit the umpire’s nice new shiny brown shoe.
He spat. That was all.
He smiled a little boy’s smile.
So sorry. He got his towel and cleaned it. Carefully.
And the tv cameras were on him and the spectators were slow-clapping in the heat and they were booing.
The referee had to make up his mind. Here was the biggest tournament in the country. If he screwed up now the sponsors would murder him; that’s if the twenty-five thousand fans who’d paid a hundred rand and risked heat stroke didn’t kill him first.
Christ, man – the referee is talking to himself – Christ, man, there’ll be a f
ucking riot.
So play goes on with Jason to serve 3–4 down and never mind the cognitive aspects of anything at all. Berrio hardly got another point.
Jason beat the shit out of him.
And in the newspapers the coloured man said he had heard nothing insulting and that everything had been fine, just fine.
*
Billy said, ‘You really spat at him? You really meant it?’
‘I don’t know. It was a long time ago.’
‘And then?’
‘Then what?’
‘You won two hundred grand. What did you do?’
‘Nothing much. Went to a beach party.’
‘With your wife?’
‘It was too hot for her.’
‘And then?’
‘We flew to Florida the next day.’
‘Jason . . .’
‘What?’
‘Jason . . . Jason . . . You’re not telling everything. You’re keeping secrets from me.’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Liar.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
‘Jason. Jason, wake up!’
‘What?’
Billy Sweete laughed. ‘You always say What? when you wake up. It’s remand day, mate. We’re going out today.
‘I’d forgotten,’ Jason said. He got out of his bunk and began a minute inspection of his clothes. Billy watched.
‘You ain’t going to impress anyone, Jason. It’s only a friggin’ magistrate. And he’s only going to remand you again. It isn’t as though it’s some big trial on tv where they tell you to put your best clothes on so the jury will think you’re respectable and never done it. It’s not – hey, wait a sec, I get it. It’s the media. The press. All rushing down from London in their cars with their big telephoto lenses and tv cameras and sound trucks.’
Billy grabbed a pair of Jason’s socks rolled up into a ball and held them to his lips like a hand mike.
‘Crowds attended the court appearance today of Jason Randypants, the former Davis Cup tennis player and bad boy of the courts. Jason is charged with stickin’ his cock into a seventeen-year-old shop assistant. She says she loved it. He says, and I quote, “It’s a frame-up, your worship. I never done it.” This is William J. Sweete for News at Ten outside the magistrates’ court in Kingstown. Pip pip and toodle-oo.’
Burn Out (Dr. Anne Vernon Book 1) Page 21
