Trophy Son Page 21
The umpire called time. I pushed back to my knees then stood all the way. I was still scared of my back but it felt looser. Gerhardt looked eager to finish me, maybe a little frustrated with the timeout.
It was his serve and I decided to guess. He wouldn’t serve into my body. I figured he’d serve wide and test my movement. He tossed and I cheated three steps to the right and sat on a forehand. I had guessed right and banged a winner up the line. The New York crowd roared for me and I felt their energy fuel me.
It can be tricky for a healthy player to face an injured player. The healthy player should just play his game but sometimes doesn’t. Gerhardt threw in a double fault, then nerves started to grip him. It was visible to me. I broke his serve then risked more on my own serve and held to go up 2–0 in the fifth and final set.
If Gerhardt knew how badly I was hurt, he would have settled in, gotten down to business and finished me. But he didn’t know and he couldn’t settle down. His game got tight, his strokes shortened up and his decision making was erratic, taking chances at the wrong times, nerves making him try to end the points too soon.
Fans watching at home on TV can see for themselves when control of a match passes from one player to the other. Their observation is validated by McEnroe’s commentary from the booth, then borne out on the court.
I had control of the match, the crowd noise for me almost loud enough to break the stadium, giving strength to me and taking it from Gerhardt.
With the external stimulation I thought I had enough to last and carry the set and match. I was certain McEnroe was saying that to all the televisions. I knew even if I did win, they’d have to carry me on the court for the final.
As the points played out, I grew more certain of winning. Gerhardt took some points but that made the crowd even crazier when I took the next ones. I could see he didn’t want to play anymore, wanted off the court, away from the stage. He had the “kill me quickly” look I had also known.
I won the match and shuffled back to the training room for relief.
CHAPTER
46
I got slaughtered in the final. Ben Archer had won his semifinal so my slaughter was at his hands. Two days was not enough time for my back to recover much. I refused to retire from the match, especially to Ben whom I respected and who would take another major and the number one ranking with the win while I would take on a new life. He won 6–3, 6–1, 6–0.
The tournament officials had reserved the players’ lounge for me after the awards ceremony so that I could linger privately and drink in the final moments of my professional tennis and I sat there with my family, my team and Ana.
My father and I had a long embrace and when we pushed back from each other still holding each other’s shoulders at arm’s length, there was a feeling of real parting with finality. I was retired now and released from his dreams. He had no plan for me after tennis, no vision or hopes for what I might be. I barely had that myself.
I hugged my mother who smiled and, despite her crying, looked happier and healthier than I’d ever seen her. She touched the side of my shoulder, turned me like a dance partner and led me a few steps from the others.
She said, “Anton, I hope now you will have time to be bored. And I look forward to seeing what you do about that.”
This was meant to convey great meaning, be a triumphant moment, a truth shared between us and generations so powerful that we would shed tears of happiness. But what I felt was a dump truck grinding its gears with the sharp shriek of metal on metal as it raised its box bed to unload a great heap of guilt. She could unload it but I didn’t have to pick it up. I could walk right past. “Thanks, Mom.”
Kristie gave me a deep hug, lasting a moment longer than normal and that felt like family. Panos hugged me next and said, “Welcome to the real world.” I was happy to be there. A Greek whose ship had sailed to port on Ellis Island for a new start.
Gabe, Bobby and Adam were subdued and sullen, talking more with my family than with me. They all had new jobs lined up except Adam. Gabe had taken up with a twenty-three-year-old American based out of Florida who was ranked fifty-five in the world. Bobby had taken on a few baseball clients. Adam was headed to Nicaragua for an indefinite surf trip.
My father was most comfortable engaging with Gabe, asking a few questions and offering a million opinions. He and I rarely spoke since his Wimbledon disruption and even more rarely made eye contact.
Ana gave my family space to be with me, not staying right at my side but moving among us, selflessly lending vitality where it was needed. She was the only one who was uncompromisingly with me and who knew me the way I knew me. What I wanted most was to be alone with her but that would come later and this time was important too. She understood that and gave me patience.
For an hour we stayed there drinking water and sipping champagne. There were toasts but no one was under the illusion this was a celebration. It was a farewell. I needed to get back home to lie down. Gabe, Bobby, Adam and I parted like battalion mates shipping back stateside who would return to their small towns and try to exchange Christmas cards each year.
I told my parents, Panos and Kristie that I’d see them very soon, then Ana and I left to be with each other.
We spent a day in Manhattan resting and packing, then drove to a house in East Hampton that Ana had rented for the month of September as my retirement present.
The first few mornings I woke early and walked the beach by myself, counting steps. I walked four thousand three hundred paces one day, twenty-one hundred the next. The counting required concentration that gave me a headache and drove off relaxation to a faraway place but I couldn’t walk or be alone another way.
Then I’d stop to look over the water and think terrible thoughts. What did a specialized tool do when the job was done? Did they melt it down to use the material for something else, or did they just hang it on a picture hook for people to admire?
I thought about Paul Newman, a committed actor who evolved to be more than any one definition. He put his brand on things, not the other way around. Literally. Harder to do for an athlete, maybe, though Roger Staubach did it after quarterbacking the Cowboys. Staubach was the Paul Newman of sport, but how the hell did he do it?
By the second week I stopped counting steps and started walking more with Ana. She had hired a chef to come each day to cook lunch and dinner so we lived like honeymooners, lounging, talking, reading, exploring. I found more time with her was better. Even more would be even better.
In our third week we took a morning walk on the empty beach. We walked five minutes in silence as a happy complement to conversation. In the sky three planes left a skywriting contrail, weaving the lines among each other into a pattern. There is a spiritual nature to the number three. Father, Son and Holy Ghost. A trinity. Two can make a third.
I took Ana’s hand and found myself on one knee looking up at her. She lifted her sunglasses above her forehead and looked back, amused, like I might recite Shakespeare.
I didn’t have a plan, didn’t have specific thoughts, I just had a feeling. Given a season to deconstruct the feeling into specific thoughts it would have been these: What matters most in our time on Earth is our relationships with others. My relationship with you is the only one that has ever been healthy, good, grounded in who I really am, the only one to make me happy, and I think I make you happy too. This relationship gives meaning to my life and I want to spend the rest of the time that I have nurturing us, above all else.
From my knee I said, “Ana, will you marry me?”
Right away it was clear she did not expect this. She looked no longer at me but through me while her mind saw images of me and us and she worked through life questions in flashes of possibilities, evaluating. There would be no specific thoughts for her either, just the feeling conjured within seconds.
But the seconds ticked by, like a player bouncing the ball before the service toss. Each second landed with a thud in my ears while I looked at her and she l
ooked through me, her head at a slight angle as though I might have been only an apparition and not real.
I had moved prematurely in the craze of my love and retirement, and in our time together now she would be unnatural, like a cornered animal retreating from a curious and hungry aggressor. So I feared.
It was a diabolic ten seconds before she recovered from the stun. Then through her rush of feeling she arrived at the answer that made her eyes smile moments before the smile spread to her mouth. “Yes.”
I was a frontiersman again. This time I was in love, and this time my life was mine.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
One of the few constants in my young writing career has been my terrific agents, Lane Zachary and Todd Shuster. They have guided me through the process three times now, and Lane worked with me on several drafts of this novel. I appreciate their advice and friendship.
My editor, George Witte, and I shared a vision for this book and he had excellent suggestions. I’ve had a range of experience with editors, and it’s my hope to work with George on many books to come.
Thanks also to the rest of the team at Macmillan/St. Martin’s Press: Don Weisberg, Sally Richardson, Dori Weintraub, Laura Clark, Sara Thwaite, Alastair Hayes. Thanks to Kathleen Carter Zrelak.
In the course of my research for this novel, I spoke with several friends and athletes who provided valuable input: James Blake, John Isner, Tiago Espirito Santo, Wayne Street, Sara Whalen Hess, Scott Kegler, Andy Postman.
Many thanks to Jean Frazier, Anna Serbek, Eileen Mitchell and MaryEllen Kazar at the Beach Haven Library. My favorite place to write.
My mother and father introduced to me both (fun and recreational) tennis and a love of reading. An important combination for this book. I still exchange book recommendations with my mom and am always fascinated to hear her insightful take.
Yates, Yardley and Thatcher attended my last Barnes & Noble book signing, though they did cartwheels around the audience rather than listen in. They’ve come to know the libraries and bookstores as my offices as well as a place to find books for themselves. Their interest in reading is growing. Each day that I write, in the back of my mind is the thought that one day they will turn these pages too. One more reason to write my best.
Last and most, thank you to Megyn. She is with me from inception to completion and is the first, often the only, person I want to share with, in any aspect of my writing or of my life. Our love grows stronger.
Also by Douglas Brunt
Ghosts of Manhattan
The Means
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Until 2011, DOUGLAS BRUNT was CEO of Authentium, Inc., an Internet security company. He is the author of two previous novels, the New York Times bestselling Ghosts of Manhattan and The Means. A Philadelphia native, he lives in New York with his wife and their three children. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part II
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Part III
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgements
Also by Douglas Brunt
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TROPHY SON. Copyright © 2017 by Douglas Brunt. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover photograph: towel © Remi Thornton / PlainPicture
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Brunt, Douglas, author.
Title: Trophy son: a novel / Douglas Brunt.
Description: First Edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017000907 | ISBN 9781250114808 (hardback) | ISBN 9781250114815 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Sports stories. | Domestic fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Sports.
Classification: LCC PS3602.R868 T76 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017000907
e-ISBN 9781250114815
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First Edition: May 2017