Trophy Son Read online

  “A toast!” yelled Dad, drunk, smacking his water glass with a spoon like he always did.

  Lots of clapping in anticipation of his words, mostly from older people Dad’s age, all his friends he’d crammed onto the guest list at the last moment. He was paying the tab for the party. Poor Kristie.

  Dad raised a hand like calling for a pass and the clapping died out. Panos sat at a table for two with Kristie at the head of the room. I was next to him at a table for ten, stuffed with Dad’s friends, Dad and Mom. There were four hundred guests in all. He said, “I couldn’t be more proud of my boys!” He looked at Panos first, thank God, then over at me. “This has turned into a real celebrity wedding.”

  The words made me think of Ana who I wished could have been with me. I told her only that there was a wedding, hoping she’d invite herself which was absurd because nobody invites themselves to weddings, and of course she didn’t. She had her own to plan.

  Dad went on, “As we welcome this wonderful woman to our family,” he gestured at Kristie, “we also welcome the number one tennis player in the world to our family,” and he gestured at me. He was humiliating himself. Could anyone not find him appalling?

  Kristie clapped, along with about half the people there. Class act. Panos had a smile etched in stone. He’d lived this too long to be surprised. I supposed he thought he might have had this day to himself, and he really might have if I hadn’t just taken over number one. Bad luck.

  “Panos and Anton grew up thick as thieves. Of course Anton was always the better player and while I was always pushing Anton on the tennis court, by the way, you’re welcome, tennis fans, Panos was always pushing Anton to the movie theater or to some goof-off.” He belly-laughed as though this had been a resounding punch line delivered spectacularly.

  “The truth is,” he went on, “Panos played an important role then. I could be very hard on Anton. You have to be hard if you want greatness. You have to break things down then build them back up, and Panos was always there to help build Anton back up. Through all the years of hard work, sweat, frustration, anxiety that it all may not work out, through all that chaos, Panos was a trusted friend, confidant, ally. Exactly what it means to be a brother.”

  These were all nice sentiments to express, maybe if I were inducted into the Tennis Hall of Fame. Even though he kept trying to round it back to Panos, thinking he was doing good, the entire context was wrong. I looked at Mom who wouldn’t look at me.

  “And so I say to you, Kristie, that not only do you have a good and loving husband in Panos, but you have, and I speak for our family, all of us.”

  She should decline the offer. She toasted though, then walked over to Dad and hugged him. He gave her a long embrace, certain he’d done something to be proud of.

  I stood without attacking my water glass. Others around me started clinking and eyes turned to me for the best man toast.

  “My favorite memories in my life all involve Panos.” Kissing Ana and getting the number one ranking are up there, the rest are all with Panos. “Growing up I was OCD. I don’t mean that as a euphemism for uptight. I had a strong case of the real thing.” I looked at Panos. “I would marvel at my older brother. How did he make living look so easy? How did he make fun come so naturally? If I could draw up a perfect day, it would be to walk to the creek by our old house with our old fishing rods and spend the afternoon sitting on the bank of the creek fishing with Panos. Or going out to the movies with Panos. Or getting a ride with Panos to McDonald’s for lunch. Anything for more time with my older brother.” I looked at him. He had a smaller, relaxed smile. A real smile.

  I said, “I still marvel at his charmed way of being.” I didn’t know Kristie well. Just small amounts of time here and there because I’d been on the road as long as they’d been together. I knew enough to like her and to know that they loved each other. “He meets and falls in love with a woman who has the same magnetism, the same way of lifting up everyone around them just by being there.” I raised my champagne glass. “To the bride and groom.”

  Kristie came over and hugged me, followed by Panos. While he and I hugged, Dad appeared and hugged us both at once. He meant well, I was pretty sure.

  Dad said to us, “Hey, I started working with this young kid at the club. Twelve years old and I’m telling you, he could be another you, Anton. Maybe better. Shows promise to be even better. Maybe not as athletic, but the mental toughness. Man.”

  This was quite a backhand to my own mental toughness. Typical from him. “Not now, Dad.”

  “Well, sure, of course. You fired me.”

  “Not now, Dad,” I said again.

  “Fine, you’re right.” He walked away. He was always worse with a few drinks.

  The dinner part of the reception began to break up and people moved to the bar and dance floor. I found Panos and said, “I’m sorry about Dad.”

  “Don’t be. We’ve always both been a little jealous of what the other has had.” He clapped my shoulder and said, “You’re handling him well.”

  “So are you.”

  “It’s not so hard,” said Panos. “I probably won’t spend much time with him again until we have a kid. Then not again until the next kid.”

  I laughed. I hoped Kristie was having fun. Panos wanted to run away from his own wedding. A few of his groomsmen hustled over and circled us.

  “Anton, let me shake your hand,” one of them said and we did. “The hand that held the rackets that played the best tennis in the world has touched my hand.” He held his own hand up and rotated it for inspection like it was now gold-leafed.

  Most of Panos’s good friends were from his college tennis team so they were all very into the game. They were drunk and playing around but still nervous around me, like I was otherworldly.

  Becoming number one had created that effect on people, especially because I spent my life in close proximity to the tennis tour and was surrounded by people connected to tennis. I had become a known name in the world at large but I didn’t live in the world at large. I lived in the tennis world where I was a god. Not the current-day Christian God who needs to be interpreted and defended. I was Zeus to ancient Greece, whose bizarre and humanlike qualities caused awe and fear. The more bizarre my demand, the more panic there was to see it done.

  My life on the tour and people’s reactions to me had changed. Whatever transportation, clothing, accommodation, meal, beverage I wanted, someone would get it for me. If I wanted five thousand green M&M’s, and only green, someone would sort them out. A thousand pigs slaughtered in my honor, no one would question the justness.

  I didn’t even have to deal with people other than my own people most times. My agents, my coach or Adam, who’d become more of an assistant than racket stringer. There were handlers at each event who would ask my team how I wanted things, then they’d take care of it. I showed up, played and was otherwise pampered.

  My stardom created more attention and so I had more insulation to intercept the attention.

  Panos’s friends wanted some war stories from the tour which I gave while he escaped to dance with Kristie, then I escaped to the bar.

  Wedding guests rotated to me at the bar like an alternate receiving line so there was never an empty moment. Most got in and got out with only a handshake or word of congratulations. Some had a story they felt would compel my interest but through the numbing constancy of it I was half listening and offering meaningless responses. Normally, handlers would usher me through a crowd like this and I would never be so exposed.

  I had managed two drinks when a striking blonde, my height with her heels on, approached with no intention of getting in and back out, nor did she offer congratulations or a handshake. She said, “You’ll never get out of this corner if I don’t get you to the dance floor.”

  She was a friend of Panos from college. She’d played on the women’s tennis team and had gone on to a modeling career, living in New York City. My fear of dancing had waned over the years and it sounded better
than shaking hands. “Lead on.”

  She did, taking my hand and pulling me through a dozen bystanders like an airlift rescue. She had the strong, lean hands of a six-foot female athlete. She weaved to the center of the dance floor then turned to me and found the rhythm of the music while sliding up and down against my body. She’d had more to drink than I had.

  Others on the dance floor gave us a few yards of space and watched. My dance partner was extremely good looking and well versed in attention.

  With the next song we moved on to some bastardization of the Charleston, the two of us holding hands while we stepped away and back toward each other, then a series of twirls and spins performed by her. I knew a few of the building blocks of that kind of dance so we just repeated them with lots of energy, both of us performing.

  She flung herself into a twirl and while my hand held her upraised hand over her head, her heel streaked over a wet spot on the floor. Her leg was uselessly airborne and as her body fell, her strong hands clenched my ring finger and pinkie only, the weakest two fingers of my playing hand.

  Her ass fell in such a direct line to the floor that she bounced, still holding my now sprained fingers days before Wimbledon. Through pain and panic of injury, I helped her up and asked if she was okay.

  She was as embarrassed as I was panicked, but otherwise fine so we retreated to the bar with less panache than the way we’d left it.

  My evening ended an hour later with ice on my hand and me wondering how I’d manage to get by without my handlers.

  CHAPTER

  36

  The following morning I met Panos and Kristie for brunch at the restaurant they had reserved for wedding guests. Later in the day they would fly to Tuscany for their honeymoon and I would fly back to London for Wimbledon. Panos’s friends were coming and going and telling stories about the reception. Dad walked in.

  He came right to us, grabbed the back of a chair from another table with one hand and swept it up to ours. He sat and said to me, “So now do you want to hear about the kid I’m coaching?” There was no hello, no good morning, no congratulations to Panos and Kristie or even an acknowledgment of them at the table. It was direct and aggressive, the way a person would pick a fight.

  I looked right at him. What I wanted to say was why don’t you go bother someone else. I think my look managed to say that, but I didn’t actually speak.

  “If not now, when?” he said. “Are you going to dictate to me when I can talk to you?”

  Erratic behavior, even for Dad. “Are you still drunk?” He’d always had olive, smooth skin but his face looked puffier than I’d noticed before and he had the beginnings of oysters under his eyes. I wondered how much he’d been smoking and drinking.

  “I see. I’m an embarrassment to you. Was I drinking too much last night?”

  He was loud and angry. The people in the room were listening and trying hard not to look. “Christ’s sake,” said Panos.

  “Dad, let’s take a walk,” I said.

  “This is it, huh? Big shot calling me out for a fight.”

  “For a walk, you asshole.” I’d never called him an asshole before. Never anything like that. “Let’s have this conversation out of the restaurant.” I stood. He stood too and we started off without touching each other. I looked back at the table. Kristie looked terrified and was squeezing the hell out of Panos’s forearm. He looked worried too. I flashed a palm to say this will be fine.

  On the sidewalk Dad and I faced each other square. It was already hot. Philly in the summer has a heavy heat. Cars sped by on Lancaster Avenue. I noticed the pitch of the engine was higher as each car approached, then lower once it passed by and away. The movement of the car compressed or expanded the sound waves depending on where you were standing. I remembered that from eighth-grade physics. I pictured the physics classroom while I stood in front of my deranged father. “What’s this all about, Dad?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A little aggressive in there. You were rude.”

  He laughed but it wasn’t a real laugh. Just a way to bare his teeth. “They’re fine, I wasn’t rude. I just want to tell you about this kid. It’s impossible to talk to you anymore.”

  I didn’t like talking to him. Not my fault. “Okay, tell me about him.”

  “What, just like that? Well, sure, but the thing is you really got to go see him play.”

  “I’m leaving for the airport in thirty minutes.”

  “I’ll send you some video tape.”

  “What would I do with that? I’m not a coach. I’m working on my own game. I don’t understand what you want from me.”

  His anger rose again. It was clear to us both this had nothing to do with the kid. He said, “Whose side are you on?” He pointed a finger in my chest, pushing into my sternum.

  “I’m on my side.” I knocked his hand away. It was a hearty smack.

  That froze him for a moment. It was the first physical challenge of any kind from me to him. He hadn’t expected it. Had never dealt with it before.

  In the next moment his instincts took over. He was the silverback and the leadership of his troop had been challenged. That’s how he saw it. I wanted to go to London and have nothing more to do with him but he’d gone primal and unconscious.

  Rage caused the involuntary transformation of his face that I recognized from my youth. His mind was in an altered state, barely aware of where he was, what he was hearing. He knew only to attack.

  I saw the change in his stance, his nostrils, his raised shoulders and fists. I remembered all of it and something triggered in me. Hidden, hurt, angry. Maybe a gene for rampage that he had passed down to me.

  We stood face-to-face, committed to whatever came next. It was a moment bigger than what a psychologist would describe. More for a biologist. It’s how species operate and evolve.

  When his fists shot forward together toward my chest I was ready. A decade before those fists had launched me backward but now I was wiser. And much bigger.

  I rotated my right shoulder back and cocked my fist. My left hand came forward and held his right arm above the elbow. Then my right hand exploded into his face. It felt like I was punching through his head.

  He went down in a bush by the restaurant wall and he stayed down. I stood over him and watched the blood spill over his chin to his shirt. His eyes were closed and I watched his sleeping face for a moment then went back inside.

  The dining room fell silent when I stepped in. Panos had an arm around Kristie, holding her close.

  “Panos, would you get some ice for Dad.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s outside. I hope you two have a great honeymoon. I need to get to the airport.” And I left.

  CHAPTER

  37

  Neither the Charleston nor Dad’s face injured my hand. I was into the second week at Wimbledon and playing well. I looked at the draw of the tournament but spent no time worrying about matchups. I’d take any comers.

  The top seeds were all winning that year. I was in the semis, playing the number four seed, a young Croatian guy coached by Ivanisevic. Another tall, lanky left-hander with a big serve, grass specialist and decent on hard courts but lots of holes in his game that made him vulnerable on clay.

  He was a threat on grass here at Wimbledon but if I served well I’d have easy holds and would just need to keep taking chances against his serve until I broke him once each set.

  That’s exactly what I did the first set and won it 6–4. I was executing the plan. It was as certain as mixing chemicals in the lab for a known result. I knew I’d win 6–4, 6–4, 6–4, or better if my opponent gave in.

  A day at the office, except there was a fan near Centre Court about ten rows back who was a pain in my ass. It was hard to know if he was for or against me, but he was vocal and loud, and all comments were directed at me. If I hit a winner he’d say something like “That’s the way.” When I hit an unforced error he’d ride the hell out of me.

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p; I tried to shut out the crowd and didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of staring right at him so I took only peripheral, blurred looks. He seemed to be alone and probably drunk. He had a long ZZ Top beard, baseball hat and sunglasses. Big guy too.

  He got louder in the second set. He was shouting a running commentary on my play and it was pissing me off. After one outburst I looked at the chair umpire to suggest he might shut the bastard up, but the hollering came between points, not during them, so the umpire felt the guy hadn’t yet crossed the line. He made a generic appeal for civility into the loudspeakers.

  The fan kept on and got in my head during the points. As I was chasing down balls and hitting strokes my mind would wander to what the next shouts would be. I started to lose more points and the hollering got worse.

  After the heckle and my next error I approached the chair. “Can you please get that guy to stop yelling?”

  The umpire said into his microphone, “Will the audience please refrain from disturbing the match.” He had an English accent which made the warning sound charming and useless. He looked back to me to say that’s the extent of what I’m going to do.

  I didn’t want to show that anything was getting to me and I’d be damned if I was going to double fault the next point so I laid in an easier serve but the Croat walloped it back. A winner up my forehand line.

  The caution from the umpire must have only fired the guy up because after this point he stood and yelled, “What the hell kind of serve was that? The women’s tour would eat you up!”

  A voice loses distinguishing characteristics when in a yell but I could hear that he was American. He reminded me of someone. The devil in one of his disguises. I looked to the umpire who agreed that this was too much. Security was already on the way so I waited at the net by the chair.