Trophy Son Read online

  “Just relaxing.”

  Adam put more ice, vodka and soda in my glass while I held it. I pulled a long sip and thought about the differences over ten years. I used to live and travel with Dad, a late-teen player with promise, known to a few people deep in tennis circles. Now I was in an exclusive Manhattan lounge, perched on a sofa behind a square of red rope like a museum exhibit. I’d earned a fortune and millions of people knew my name, my face and something of my story. I was dating a famous actress. All enviable stuff.

  People in that bar would be surprised to learn that I spent any time fearing what came next for me. But the fact is that every person is fighting a battle we might know nothing about. Minkoff helped me identify my battle years earlier. I was specialized. My battle was to be a whole man.

  Adam had managed primitive, nonverbal communications with a great-looking girl who was loitering by the security guard. She came through the unclipped rope led by her breasts six inches ahead of the rest of her. Adam was delighted and fixed her a vodka cranberry. Her voice was breathy and affected like a 1940s Hollywood star.

  I said a pleasant hello and was relieved when she shared our sofa on the other side of Adam so I could lean back in seclusion.

  I thought to myself that all Americans should go out at the US Open. It was the last major of the season and it was New York City. A player should see it through to there, then retire.

  I saw a T-shirt once that read “New York Fucking City.” That said it all.

  I’d be twenty-nine by this year’s US Open. It seemed like the right time to do it. I’d stopped waiting for Ana and I could stop waiting for everything else just by deciding to make it so. I finished my drink with a second long sip and wondered if I’d feel the same after I woke in the morning, after I’d spoken with Ana. Were these decisions real or would these be like the vows of a drunkard?

  In twenty minutes more I bid my friends good luck on their adventures and went home to meet Ana who would soon be there.

  That night I slept well. I had fallen off before Ana got home from her play. In the morning we rolled on our sides to face each other.

  “How was the play?”

  “Almost entirely smooth for the first time. The kinks are out.”

  “Good.” I took her hand. “My mind wandered into a couple decisions last night and I want to run two things by you.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Maybe. Hopefully not.” She was stretched long and sideways with her head resting in her hand supported by her elbow on the mattress and her eyes looked huge and beautiful. “I don’t need a yes, but I need to know these are not deal-breakers for you.”

  “Still yikes.”

  I laughed and sat up. “I want kids. Some day.”

  “Okay.”

  “Deal-breaker or not a deal-breaker?”

  “Not a deal-breaker.”

  I squeezed her hand. “That’s one. One to go.”

  “So far, not yikes.”

  “I want to retire at the US Open.”

  “The one in one month or the one in thirteen months?”

  “One month.”

  “When your mind wanders, it doesn’t mess around.”

  “It feels right.”

  When I was on the tour I had little time for relationships outside tennis and people had to work harder to stay in my life. Panos did what he could but was mainly there as an example of what a happy life could be. Successful financial advisor, house in the suburbs, kid on the way, happy wife, good enough at tennis to win championships at the country club. Not for me, but not bad at all.

  Ana didn’t say “And then what.” She knew I would go after whatever was the next thing and that for now we were together so we could go after it as partners and see if we could make our partnership work too. She said only, “Great. I’m in.”

  I didn’t want a whole season with my retirement pre-announced, sentimental good-byes at each tournament. I wanted it quick like this. I called Gabe, Bobby, Adam, the only team I’d ever had as a pro, and I told them. Gabe called press contacts and told them. And so it was announced. Anton Stratis would be out of tennis by a week after Labor Day.

  CHAPTER

  45

  Everyone I passed spoke to me that time at the US Open. Security guards, ushers, caterers, tour officials. They all said things like “This is your tournament, Anton,” “Get one more,” “Thanks for all the great tennis over the years.” It felt damn nice and made me think that a little bit of a child’s game is what a grown person needs. I touched a lot of lives and though I was only a diversion from their own battles, I touched them in a positive way.

  I was playing well and holding up physically. I got through to the semifinal and dropped only one set in a tiebreaker. I lost only two service games in four matches.

  I was to play the world number one in the semis. Erik Gerhardt, a twenty-five-year-old English kid who’d held the number one ranking for three months. He had thick legs like Gabe but he was 6'4" and a bull, fast and physical like Boris Becker.

  I’d faced him twice before and I won both times. He’d taken on Patrick McEnroe as his new coach which had lifted his game, but I still didn’t consider him all that dangerous a player. He was the reigning number one but he wouldn’t go down as an all-time great. He was a very good player who’d been playing great the way Lleyton Hewitt did for a while.

  I was the first semifinal match which meant I had a certain start time and didn’t have to wait around for another match. The tournament sends Mercedes SUVs to pick up the players from hotels. I always allowed forty-five minutes to get from the hotel to the tennis center, another forty-five to get out to the practice court, thirty minutes of warm-up starting two hours before the match, then I ate again. For a 1pm match at the US Open, I scheduled the pick-up from my hotel for 9:30am.

  The locker room thinned way out this late in the tournament. Instead of the few hundred players on day one, there were four men, four women, plus the doubles draw. Gerhardt was already there when I walked in. The top four players in the world were in the tightest cluster of tour ranking points in history. I was ranked four and if I beat Gerhardt and also went on to win the final, I’d be the new number one.

  Ben Archer was ranked number three and in the other semifinal against the twenty-eighth seed who’d broken through. If Ben won the tournament, he’d take the number one spot.

  Gerhardt stood and walked over to me with his hand out. “Good luck today, Anton. I hope we have a great match.”

  “Me too. Good luck.”

  “I’ll miss you on the tour.”

  “I doubt for very long, but thanks.”

  “Maybe we can get a drink or lunch some time. I’d like to ask you how you’ve handled it all over the years.”

  That struck me as something I should have done when twenty-five. “Sure. Any time.”

  He nodded thanks and we walked to separate lockers, opponents again. You don’t get to number one without being able to treat even a friend as a conquest.

  I stayed in my cushioned chair and didn’t think about the match but found that I couldn’t help but wonder about Gerhardt. What road had he taken? His father, family, loves, books, steroids? Can his coach hand him a racket and get Pavlovian saliva in response? Is he up late at night in bed with eyelids squeezed shut and wondering when his masquerade will end? Does he love anyone? Has he learned how to love? Does he know anyone? Does he know himself?

  Elite tennis players are soldiers who enlist at age eight rather than eighteen.

  I’d had an early warm-up with Gabe on a practice court and my match time was in forty minutes. Ben Archer’s match was after mine in probably five hours so it was unusual for him to be in the locker room so early, but in he walked.

  Ben walked over to me looking unsure of himself. Everyone left a player alone right before a match. We always had to give a few words to the TV reporter on our way to the court which was a nuisance we tolerated. Otherwise, players were left alone but Ben wanted a moment.
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  I was seated far enough from Gerhardt that low tones wouldn’t reach him. Ben said to me, “You got this guy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m rooting for you. As always.”

  “It’d be fun to play you one more time,” I said. “Fitting.”

  “Anyway,” he said, embarrassed, “after all these years, and you leaving now, I just thought I ought to stop in and say a word. I’ll leave you to it.”

  He turned and started walking out and I said, “Ben.” He walked back to me so we were close and in low tones again and I said, “How the hell did you do it all this time? Make it all look so calm, intended. Easy.”

  “Me, make it look easy? I’ve been jealous of you my whole career. You’re the flashier player. More talented, really. I’m just the plodder, the work horse. It never was easy for me.”

  I didn’t think he understood what I meant. “That aside though. I don’t mean the playing, the results. I mean the life. Did you find parts of it as lonely as I did? As miserable?”

  He smiled. We’d never exchanged much more than greetings. Maybe some looks that expressed comradeship if you could read into them. But now I was being as frank with him as I’d ever been with anyone. He said, “My dad was a machine worker. He punched a clock and went out on the assembly plant floor for long shifts every day. So I’ve always treated this as a job, punching the clock. This is better than the assembly plant.” He shrugged. “And what’s more, my dad doesn’t have to punch a clock anymore. But, yeah, it was lonely.”

  I nodded. “I hope we have one more match together.”

  I dressed and stretched and meditated until it was time to take the court. We walked from the locker room down the long familiar hallway to the stadium court, the hallway lined with large photographs of former champions, my photograph there among them, and I looked at the stranger in it.

  At the end of the hallway was a reporter. I walked second and gave her a short comment about needing to play hard and respect Gerhardt’s game, and then there was Charlie, the security guard at the head of the tunnel, standing where he had always stood for the last ten years.

  He never said a word in any of the matches of any prior years but that day he said, “Good luck, Anton.” It felt like God choosing sides in a sporting event.

  I stepped past Charlie to the open air and very white clouds that bring only shade. A cool day would favor me and my older legs.

  We had yet to warm up and the match wouldn’t start for another twenty minutes so the stadium was only about ten percent full. There was a legends box where former champions and tennis greats would sit for the match. A retiring former number one and an American brings them out. Agassi, Courier, Borg and Laver were there. Agassi usually didn’t come to this stuff but we’d stayed in touch since I played his charity event. He nodded to me. Agassi never had the prettiest game, not a game like mine at all, but he was the player whose retirement I identified with the most.

  I saw John McEnroe standing in the booth with a headset lowered around his neck. I hoped I’d have the kind of day that would have him saying good and hyperbolic things about me. Patrick wouldn’t be there calling the match with him. He’d be down in a player’s box as Gerhardt’s coach.

  I looked to my own player’s box where Ana was just taking a seat next to my parents, Panos and Kristie, and Gabe. I smiled at how gorgeous Ana was, certain I’d never get used to it.

  Gerhardt and I hit warm-up balls and I felt good, relaxed. My joints felt lubricated and strong. I’d taken everything Bobby gave me, maybe for the last time, and I was sure Gerhardt had taken something similar. He was an inch taller, twenty-five pounds heavier and all muscle.

  The match started on Gerhardt’s serve and he held for the first game. I then served well but Gerhardt returned great, jumping on even my best serves and he broke me easily. I broke his serve, then he broke me back.

  I dropped all four of my service games in the first set, losing the set 6–2. I’d lost serve only twice in the tournament and now four times in the first set. Gerhardt had held his serve twice, then the only two games I took were off his serve.

  The bizarre thing was that I was playing about my best. I was serving great but he was returning out of his mind.

  Gerhardt held for the first game of the second set then we switched sides. I was rattled and needed the time in my chair. I was serving well, hitting my spots and still not winning. I needed to take more chances on my serve.

  I stepped to the baseline to serve and decided to hit a flat hard serve up the middle. It was pure off my racket. I felt the gentle weight of the ball through my strings as I sent a meteor across the net that hit the T of the service box. A serve like that had never not been an ace for me but Gerhardt was already there, stepping into the court, shoulder turned, blocking a backhand return that came back so quickly that it skirted past my forehand side for a winner.

  He’d guessed right. I couldn’t have hit a better serve but if he committed to the right guess and sat on it, then the faster my serve the less time I’d have to get ready for the return.

  My next serve to the ad court I decided to go wide. I slammed it high in the service box and it kicked up and wide but Gerhardt was there and he leaned into a backhand return for a winner up the line.

  He looked up at me like a boxer who’d taken my best punch and smiled back. My serve was my strength and I was serving my best and losing.

  I hit two more serves that might have been aces on other days but Gerhardt took chances again, guessing right both times and he returned winners to take my service game at love.

  I had to prepare to return Gerhardt’s next service game but I was dazed. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me on the court. Every time he guessed and he showed up early.

  Then it occurred to me. Even that he was guessing on every one of his returns told me something. He wasn’t a low-ranked qualifier taking chances against a top guy. He was number one. He ought to be playing straight up, especially if up love–40 on my serve.

  That the four guesses were correct told me something more. I had a tell.

  His team must have looked at tape of my serve and found a tell. Patrick Damn McEnroe. It had happened with other top players. Becker had a tell. He’d do something with his tongue that would tip the opponent what he planned to do with his serve. Amazing that in what could be my last match, my tell was out and used against me.

  John McEnroe would be in the booth saying I was playing well, just up against a guy out to prove he was number one, but I had new optimism at my revelation, more energy in my steps between and during points.

  Gerhardt served well and held in a tough game to go up 3–0 in the second set.

  We switched sides again and I came to the baseline to serve. I shuffled my feet, twitched my mouth and tongue, darted my eyes side to side, repointed my shoulders and jerked my head side to side. I looked like I had a neurological disorder. Gerhardt was fascinated.

  I tossed quickly and straight ahead. I always tossed to the same spot no matter where I served so I knew my toss wasn’t the tell.

  I was serving wide to his forehand and my ball was six inches out. I wasn’t certain but I didn’t think he had a jump on it. I decided to go for it on my second serve. What the hell, I’d lost my last service game at love so I might as well take a chance. I went through the same crazy routine then I tossed and plastered an ace down the middle.

  Gerhardt’s feet didn’t move. At all.

  The next serve Gerhardt guessed wrong and slipped trying to change direction. Another ace, an embarrassing one. Momentum shift. I was certain I wouldn’t drop another service game in the match. I took the second set 6–3.

  Mentally tough players can put a firewall between sets, like the Titanic, only better. But this was worse for Gerhardt. His huge knowledge advantage coming into the match had cost me only a set and now I’d evened that up. He wasn’t even frustrated yet. He was still confused. His frustration would come when I creamed him.

/>   I took the third set 6–2 and was up 4–1 in the fourth and what should have been the deciding set. I reached up to spin a second serve out wide to the ad court and my back went. I felt a sharp pain that seized me like an assassin garroting my lower back with piano wire.

  Gerhardt managed a weak return of my serve but I couldn’t move for his ball. Immediate injury timeout.

  I moved to my chair on tiptoes trying not to antogonize my lower back. I sat as slowly as I could while a tournament trainer ran out to check me. He asked me how bad and I said very. He made the assessment for a full injury timeout back in the locker room so a trainer got under each of my arms and helped me off the court. We walked through the locker room to a small training room with padded table where I lay on my stomach.

  Bobby was there. He prepared an injection, probably cortisone or something like it, while a trainer gently rubbed out my back.

  Minutes passed. It didn’t hurt if I didn’t move but it was time to play or default. I stood and walked back out on my own, afraid of the pain but not feeling it right then. I paced along the baseline, keeping my back rod-straight and tried a slow service motion with my arm. No searing pain but I felt my back muscles were tired and tweaked like a torture victim’s.

  I had to finish out my service game and I thought about serving underhand. Instead I hit a flat-footed serve with no pop and Gerhardt ripped the return past me mercilessly. I lost that service game and went on to lose the fourth set 6–4.

  It was an even game so there was no reprieve to me of switching ends and resting in my chair. I called a second injury timeout and shuffled to sit down. The trainer ran back out and this time I lay belly-down on the court by the chair and he rubbed out my back again. Humiliating, but it felt good.

  With my cheek to the court I could see up into my player’s box. My mother and father, to me now just fans that I used to know well, looked panicked. Panos and Kristie, holding hands, meeting my gaze. Ana had her hands to her face trying to wish away my pain.

  I thought again about Joe Montana, knowing this might be the last time I could look up at a stadium crowd, feel the roar and then the hush, repeating like ocean waves.