His best thinking had come after the five-setters, when the last milligram of energy had been drawn out of him and every cell of his body lay weary and spent, when he'd move from the locker room to the car on sheer willpower. At home he'd lie down, in a Jacuzzi or on the floor, straining till every fiber was stretched taut like an elastic band about to snap, then slowly letting go of each quivering muscle till he lay loose and limp and totally happy.
It was a private sort of happiness. There was no one to share it with. Perhaps it couldn't be shared. It was an island of bliss in an ocean of people and problems. Like the white-capped breakers in the surf, they could reach no more than the beaches, and the world would draw them back and leave him on his island, alone, at peace.
How does all this fit together? There is more. There has to be.
With a deep sigh, he turned over and fell asleep.
At nineteen he completed his second Golden Slam at the Open in Flushing Meadows. Alone, he stood at the top of his sport.
Winning tournaments wasn't the thrill it used to be. The season was never over. But dwarfing the prize and appearance money a successful athlete could rake in were the endorsements, which could run into many millions a year. Kitt had only a rough idea of the money coming in. After he had passed earnings he could understand in terms of bills to be paid and money left for extras, he had arrived in that hazy zone where the astronomical amounts paid by athletic drink companies and shoe manufacturers for the use of his name and his picture and a commercial or two exceeded realistic comprehension. They became mere figures on a sheet of paper.
He watched Wynne drive up in her conspicuous red Porsche and stop at the gate. Wynne Lloyd-Rutgers, enigma. Beautiful Wynne, dropping in and out of his life at far-spaced intervals, showing up at major tournaments, capriciously, for almost a year. At least partly for him. Surprising and yes, just a bit flattering. Many of the guys had wives or girlfriends traveling with them, but he rarely even dated. But seeing Wynne in the stands—good-looking, classy Wynne, cheering him on—it had felt good. Sort of made him fit in. On TV they'd called her his girlfriend, but that was crap. Romance was something far off yet. Always another shot to learn, a volley to practice, a serve to perfect. A lot of the stuff guys his age did was alien to him. He'd had more responsibility and more discipline, much more money, a lot less freedom, and no adolescence. Girls weren't part of his life. They were faces in the crowd, players on the women's tour.
He'd never got a handle on her life or her dreams. She dominated every conversation, and he let her because the topics were far from his sphere. Her travels, her jet-set friends. She was older than he, probably by five or six years, but what was age when you were a professional at fourteen and the family breadwinner at fifteen?
Exhausted and exhilarated, he sank back in the leather cushions, letting the seat way back to stretch his legs.
“I did it, Wynne. My second Golden.”
She nodded, smiling.
“It would've been three if you hadn't got injured at the Australian last year. The pundits call you the greatest player in the history of tennis. Let's celebrate!”
“I'm kind of tired.”
She looked at him searchingly, but didn't question him.
“Tomorrow, then. Come on, Kitt. I have to leave in a few days.”
“Okay. But nothing big, okay? Let's just have dinner and talk. I'm leaving for Davis Cup on Wednesday.”
“Oh really, Kitt. Wasting your time on patriot games.”
“Let's drop it.”
After dinner the next night he watched Wynne call for the check. She had a commanding air about her that got results. He'd long ago given up arguing about who was paying for what. She had money, he had money. It didn't seem to matter a lot who picked up the tab.
The stars were obscured by threatening thunderclouds when they drove up to her hotel. A few huge drops began to fall, and she broke into a run ahead of him.
“Come on, dummy! You're getting all wet!”
“I love rain.”
They talked some more in her suite and she moved over to sit closer, snuggling against him like a cat treading out a comfortable spot.
“Kitt?”
Her eyes were dark and her lips quivered as she pulled his head down to her own and began to kiss him. After a moment he pulled back.
“Whoa—let's not get out of control.”
“Why not?”
He stared moodily into her eyes and silently asked himself same question. Why not?
“I have a lot of stuff to figure out.”
She pressed against him.
“Figure it out later.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, gently pushing her away. “It's just not the same for me.”
“We've known each other for a long time, Kitt.”
“It's not about how long we've known each other. I want it to be right, and it just isn't.”
“Don't you think you're being just a little immature?”
He shrugged impatiently. “I guess I'm not ready for this sort of relationship.”
She reached over and ran her hand through his coarse, obstinate hair.
“You've never made love with anyone, have you?”
“What if I haven't—is that a crime?”
“Of course not. It's unusual. Especially for a champion athlete. And it's kind of sweet.”
“Don't patronize me, okay? I just don't want to get into something this serious.”
‘Why serious? I'm not proposing, am I?”
“So it's just entertainment?”
“Kitt, let's not be hypocrites. I want you. Is anything wrong with that?”
“I didn't say that. I just don't feel right about it.”
“Don't make it so heavy, Kitt. Pleasure isn't a mortal sin, and there are no expectations attached, okay? It's not like I'll ask you to make an honest woman out of me in the morning.”
What was it Dad had said? Sex was more than hormones. Never settle. It was so long ago, and the subject had sort of bored him then. As he got older he'd turned it over and over in his mind, measuring and challenging. Why settle for less when you can have it all? Was he letting his dead father run his life?
“You may be right, but I need time to get straight with myself on this. I don't want to wake up some day and wish I'd waited for the right time and the right person.”
“Lighten up, will you? This is the twenty-first century.”
The evening was getting away from him fast. Why couldn't he take this more lightly, like Wynne? Why did he have to make a federal case of something that could be so simple?
“Sorry. I don't mean to put you down. It's just the way I am.”
“All right. Don't get steamed. This is nothing you and I can't fix.”
“Who says anything needs fixing?”
“You can be such a child at times, Kitt Buchanan. “
His attempts, some years ago, to sift through his father's holistic views with Jeff hadn't gone very far. Idealism annoyed Jeff, and he'd told Kitt to come up with his own moral code, and not let Dad dictate to him from the grave. When Jeff had started babbling about protection he'd tuned out the trendy advice because he didn't want to prolong the asinine conversation with comments. The only thing he'd gleaned from the barrage of platitudes was that he should always carry condoms. It didn't so much embarrass as irritate him, the way Jeff assumed that any guy his age was at the mercy of his glands, a hormonal time bomb ready to go off at the sight of a good-looking woman.
He should have known better than to talk abstractions with Jeff. Start out discussing beliefs and in no time at all he'd be jabbering about profit and loss.
“We're not on the same page here. We may never be.”
“Kitt, you belong to a new generation. Don't tie yourself down to garbage from the past. Look at where it comes from. Control. Superstition. Don't make a monumental moral issue out of this.”
He shook his head with a little smile, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
“I
'm out of here, Wynne. I need a little down time. Call you tomorrow.”
Walking back to the car, he thought of her kiss. I don't know you. You don't know me. You don't know the inside of me, the confusion, the questions. You wouldn't like me if you did.
What did she want with a guy like him? She looked like she'd laugh at him when he'd accompanied her to a couple of social events, bored as all get-out with her patronizing friends. Payback for her support at the majors. Equal portions of amusement and embarrassment to her, most likely. Why did she keep coming? The way she moved around in public, in society, not just naturally, but with delight—she thrived on it. What did she like about him besides his tennis?
She was vague about what she did with her life. Why did she keep dropping in and out of his? Was it anything besides fame? Not Kitt Buchanan, but Kitt Buchanan, champion. Kitt Buchanan, number one tennis player in the world.
Let pleasure be pleasure—light, free, nothing heavy. Is that how it's supposed to be? I can't do it. Isn't that okay, too?
She said she loved him, but Wynne could say things like that easily, as if she was talking about a flavor of ice cream. Could you love each other and not be soul mates? Wynne could be right, maybe he was romanticizing. Was there such a thing as truth? Fragments seemed to be everywhere, but who had it all? How did you put them together into something solid you could hang on to?
His head throbbing, he stopped by the side of the road and lay back against the seat.
Is this all there is?
He returned the rented car at five in the morning, hailed a taxi to take him out of the city. Where? It didn't matter. Just out of the crowd. To the Island somewhere. Away. As though there was any getting away here. People everywhere. The beaches, then.
The cab deposited him at the end of a dead-end road, and the driver gestured his thanks to Kitt as he pocketed the tip. In the early morning quiet he walked down the sandy path leading to the white beaches, and as the crunching of the cab's tires receded in the distance, Kitt breathed deeply, listening. It felt good to walk alone, smelling the morning. The sounds of the surf swishing onto empty sands filled him with a melancholy peace.
It isn't enough.
An hour later the rains started with a sudden ferocity that drove the few early birds back to cottages and campers. Kitt plodded on by the water's edge, finding perverse satisfaction in the whipping downpour that lashed his face. The beach was empty again, the way he liked it, and the scourging storm matched the uproar inside.
On court he'd always felt good, focusing mind and muscle on a precise goal, unleashing the power of his supremely fit body in an orgy of strength and skill. Out on the court there were no doubts, no questions. Everything worked.
How did you justify getting a thousand times more money for hitting a ball than other people did for work that mattered? The list of tennis players on the sports pages went in descending order of dollars raked in. Cash cows at the cattle auction.
The media package was in the minus column, too. The late-night shows, pouncing on this athletic freak whose every word, every move was dissected and fed into the pseudoscientific processors of TV psychobabble. He'd stopped reading the press clippings Jeff and Rick so eagerly collected, breaking out of the prison of other people's opinions of who he was, people who circumscribed Kitt Buchanan with a volley and a lob and an overhead smash. People who knew his serve and his forehand and let them define his soul.
Had tennis defined him? Was there more than Kitt Buchanan, athlete? Ten, maybe fifteen years from now, what would there be—Kitt Buchanan, former champion? Former star? Former number one? After the applause and the articles and the interviews, when some 17-year-old had broken out of the pack and begun a meteoric eclipse of the top ten, when fame was past and the present a humiliating parade of postgame head shaking and consolation prizes and slipping rankings—would there be anything but a former Kitt Buchanan?
A watery sun stepped back and forth through the shredded veils that blended with the wide expanse of sudsy breakers and endless grayness. Somewhere were the answers. All he needed was time to focus his mind as he knew how.
He broke into a jog, back through the heavy wet sand. Exertion never failed to work its magic. Soon energy and good feelings started to soak through him from somewhere inside as he strained against wind and rain and sand, running in and out of the surf as it pounded the beaches. His muscles twitched in painful exhilaration, and he threw back his head and laughed as the cold rain eased the tension in his face and neck and soothed his throbbing forehead.
He detoured to Jeff's hotel room. His brother seemed surprised.
“I thought you'd be on your way to the airport.”
“No rush. I want to talk to you about Zack.”
“He's a good coach, Kitt.”
“He talks more to himself than to me. I don't like him.”
“I'll see what I can do, okay? I've got a meeting with the ROCA people. Got to go now.”
On the way home from the Australian Open the following year he picked up a few books and magazines at L.A. International before he ran to catch the connecting flight home. He read sporadically during the last leg of the trip, distracted by the view of the land from a cloudless sky. He did not look at his tennis magazine until he was halfway home in a cab.
It was in the chatter section, a column of short news flashes at the front of the magazine. Next to a small photograph of Zack Garner waving a piece of paper was a short notice, “Coach signs five-year contract with the Cannon.”
Stunned, he read and reread the brief announcement. What could he do now? Five years! How stupid to allow Jeff to sign legal documents for him. He was not going to work with Zack for five years. Most contracts ran for a few tournaments or for a year or something. What options were left? Could he buy Zack out?
It was the following evening before he tracked Jeff down on the phone. They argued for twenty minutes and resolved nothing. Jeff was sorry, but there was no acceptable alternative. Zack had some tempting offers. He was getting ready to bolt.
“So? That's what I wanted!”
“When you've had time to think about it you'll see I'm right.”
“It's your problem. Buy him out or rescind the contract or whatever. I'm not working with him for five freaking years.”
Danny Jackson, his best friend from the tour, told him to get a lawyer to rein Jeff in, but he couldn't do it. His only satisfaction was the hiring of an assistant coach of his own choosing.
One night Danny launched an invitation.
“How about getting together next month at my place in Tampa, maybe play some golf?”
“Okay. Is Tess coming, too?”
“She's moving in with me.”
“You're kidding!”
“She's finishing her semester in Boston and then she's coming down. We decided last week.”
He tried to digest that information for a moment. Danny laughed.
“You're more shocked than my mother.”
Kitt nodded.
“What'd your mom say?”
“Nothing much. Different generation. Besides, I'm twenty-four. Not much they can say. And they like Tess. They're not going to make trouble.”
“Oh.”
“Some day we want to get married. For now she's transferring to the University of Florida. She'll travel with me when she can, but her studies will come first. I don't want her to give up her goals for mine.”
“Good for you.”
“What about you and Wynne?”
He shrugged.
“Nothing like that.”
”Good.”
“You don't like Wynne.”
“Tell me, when she's not there, do you miss her?”
“Let me think about that.”
“That give you a clue?”
Nothing much changed during his triumphant year, and in the fall Mateo Villaflores stopped by. Kitt had been his best man the year before, and Mateo couldn't stop talking about Marisa's pregnancy, consumed with
babies and families and names and college funds. Would Kitt be the godfather?
“Sounds cool. What does a godfather do?”
“It used to be, godparents took special responsibilities for the child. Especially teaching about God.”
“I know nothing about God. I'm not even sure I believe in God.”
“I know. But you're a good man, and some day you will know.”
“What if I decide I don't believe in God? Then how could I teach your child?”
“Honestly, Kitt. What it means to Marisa and me, if ever our child should need you, you be there for him. Or her.”
“That I can promise.”
They had dinner in Mateo's room that night, because he was heading home the next morning. Mateo patted his pocket with satisfaction.
“Couple more years of this, Kitt. I'm home free.”
“Saving your pennies?”
“The ranch is coming close. And you, what do you want?”
“A life, I guess.”
“Ah, that you make yourself. You'll be all right.”
“I envy you.”
“You? The Cannon envies me?”
“You've got your ducks in a row, Mateo.”
“Ah, this is not about tennis, is it? You are right. I am blessed.”
He thought about it on his way to his hotel. Mateo had never achieved greatness on the court. Why did it all happen for him? Other people worked just as hard, yet they didn't get there. People suffered and starved and struggled, without ever reaching the top. All he did was hit balls across a net and people paid him absurd amounts of money for it. The fans got more worked up over a service ace than over Middle East terrorism. They called him perfect, but didn't perfect have to be bigger than a powerful forehand and a sizzler down the line? You got written up as a demigod because you had developed a fine skill in a minuscule section of life, a meaningless little spot, a dead end with no roads out. A swimming pool, a soccer field, a tennis court. If that was perfection it was the point of no place to go, frozen in superiority, with hardly any room to rise and no way to grow.
So perfect meant that nobody had happened to try the same thing as you and been as lucky. Not special. Not noble or smart or wise. It didn't take integrity to be the best tennis player or swimmer or gymnast in the world, or the best painter, pianist, or scientist. It didn't take goodness or wisdom. Just an aptitude and a chance. They asked you solemn questions about the moral state of the nation when all you were really good at was hitting a ball. There was a whole world out there, and what did he know about it? The kids he sent through college weren't people he knew. The causes he donated to were noble endeavors outside his orbit, things he believed in from a distance. Without true intimacy with it, the world was a theory, a concept.
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