by Alan Chin
Nothing I said diminished the grin on Connor’s face, but each time I stole a glimpse of him, my heart shrank. He stared out the window, pulled a loose strand of hair into the corner of his mouth and nibbled it absentmindedly, then plucked at a dangling thread on his coat sleeve. The one time he did look my way, I saw through the dark glasses that his eyes were frosted over.
Roy asked, “So what do you think? Does he have it?”
“Does he have what?”
“Natural talent. Has he got what it takes to be great?”
“You know, when I coached on the tour, I noticed a funny thing: the more time a player spent on the practice courts, the more natural talent he had.”
“Yes, but you can’t discount natural talent,” Roy said, shaking his head and waving a hand.
“Takes more than talent to win matches,” I said, turning to Connor. “That kid who beat you in Carmel had zero natural talent, but he found a way to win.”
“A pusher,” Connor spat. “I’m much better.”
I smiled, ready to remind him that a “pusher” had served him up a double bagel, but with the words on my tongue, I swallowed the thought, saying instead, “Show me a pusher who keeps the ball in play and I’ll show you a room full of trophies.”
A waiter sauntered up to take our order. I shook my head. Carrie ordered coffee, Roy asked for a tea refill, and for a moment, I thought Connor was going to order a second breakfast, but he turned his head toward the window, ignoring the waiter’s gaze.
“Connor should have beaten him,” Roy said, interjecting an edge to his voice. “A fluke. It happens to everybody.”
“That kid didn’t beat Connor,” I said. “Connor beat himself.” Connor’s grin evaporated. “You see, in a winning game, fifteen percent is stroke production, fifteen percent is footwork and speed, and seventy percent is what’s between the ears. That hacker who beat you proved that perfectly. So far, you’ve developed only thirty percent of a winning baseline game and zero percent of a net game.”
“That’s why we need your help,” Roy said. His froggy voice croaked with excitement. “Ms. Bennett tells me that you know the Xs and Os as well as anyone. I’ll work with him on his physical game. You work on his mental attitude and play strategy.”
I felt uneasy. I cocked my head and stared out the window, beyond the plush verdant golf course to the pristine white houses perched on the hillside. I was convinced that Roy was a hindrance, and to help his son, he should step aside. I was also annoyed at Connor’s lack of enthusiasm, but it occurred to me that it might be a façade to hide his deeper feelings.
I decided to gamble. After an uncomfortable silence, I glanced back at Roy and said, “I don’t work that way, Mr. Lin. Either I take charge of his entire training, or I back away. It’s no reflection on you, I just can’t work any other way.” It sounded so good I began to believe it.
“Perhaps we can compromise?”
“Mr. Lin, as a father, what are your goals regarding Connor?”
“My boy will be the first Chinese player to reach number one in the world.”
I turned my attention to those dark circles of glass. Connor’s eyes brushed the table, and the tips of his ears grew pink, deepening to blood red. He gave me the curious impression that he was not in sync with Roy’s grand vision. Either he didn’t want it, or he didn’t believe he could achieve it.
“What training have you done?” I asked.
“He began at age seven,” Roy said, even though I had directed the question to Connor. “I coach him three hours a day during the school year, and for the last three summers, I sent him to the Huntington Beach Tennis Academy. He stayed home this year because of financial constraints.”
Carrie had mentioned that Connor had stopped improving at the academy in addition to the money issue. The old man’s holding back on me, I thought.
“Mr. Lin, when it comes to tennis, compromise is not a concept I’m familiar with. I’m sorry.” My reply unsettled him, and I felt sorry I had closed the door so abruptly. I glanced at my watch and, although I had nowhere pressing to be, I started to rise. Carrie began to protest, but I silenced her with a glance.
“Hold on!” Roy reached over and gripped my wrist like a hydraulic vise. “I respect a man who doesn’t compromise.” A wooden smile veiled his face, but I saw the emotions churning in his eyes. “Perhaps you and Connor should get to know each other before we decide. If he prefers you, I’ll step aside.”
An audible change in the rhythm of Roy’s breathing accompanied the pause that followed. I had won the first skirmish, but my inner voice told me to back away. I began to say no a final time, but the word caught in my throat.
Why not? I wondered. Life, a meaningful life, comes from a man’s unflagging struggle toward his grand ambition. My last four years had pointed to no goal beyond a paycheck; my job was a sanctuary from bashing my head against the world’s wall. I had once thought of myself as a cowboy galloping over a prairie in chase of a dream, but I couldn’t remember what that felt like. How many more years would I hide, seeking refuge while others struggled and triumphed?
I shrugged my shoulders and nodded. Roy released my wrist. Rubbing the soreness away, I focused on Connor’s eyes through those dark circles.
“Your dad is a determined man. I like that.” I smiled. He returned a cautious grin, his first friendly gesture. Mine too, for that matter.
“If you find a way to make him swallow a ‘no’,” Connor said, as if Roy weren’t sitting there, “let me know how. I’ve never learned the knack.”
“Let’s walk. I’ll show you the facilities.”
We left Roy and Carrie and ambled downstairs, where we toured the athletic facilities: weight room, sauna and steam room, lockers and showers. I explained that I was big on cross-training with both weights and cardiovascular workouts like cycling and running, and I was also keen on using tai chi and meditation to strengthen concentration. He surprised me by admitting that all of his father’s workouts were spent on court hitting balls, which partly explained the lack of focus I had witnessed in Carmel.
We left the building and strolled toward the courts. The mist had passed, but the morning still held its freshness. The sun would soon make an appearance and dry the courts. A fine day, I thought, scrutinizing my little world.
I asked about his training at Huntington Beach, and as he described his experiences there, I read between the lines to get my own picture of why he had stopped improving. The powers that be must have labeled him as lazy, or too high strung, or unteachable.
Whatever the reason, they had decided not to grant him precious one-on-one time with the top instructors. Instead, they placed him into group lessons with younger students and then matched him against better players in order to boost the confidence of the better players. They expected him to lose, and of course that was what he did, over and over. By making him fodder for the top players, they inadvertently taught him how to lose. No one had ever taken the time and energy to teach him how to win. The experts had written him off as a lost cause, so it was no surprise when he told me how he had hated the academy.
“Tell me why you play tennis,” I said, “what you like about it.”
“Winning. I love winning.”
“What else?”
“There’s nothing else.”
Wrong answer. I suspected that was his father talking.
“That’s all tennis means to you, winning or losing?”
“That’s the whole point of the game, to crush the opponent, right?”
“I always thought that the point of any game was to have fun.”
We walked a dozen more steps in silence. Connor swiveled his head back toward the clubhouse, as if to make sure that his father couldn’t overhear.
“Everything about tennis is awesome. The feel of the ball on your racket, the way your body moves through the stroke, hitting a difficult shot just the way you mean to, it’s all totally killer. But what I love are those times when my game kick
s into light speed and I’m not there anymore. It’s just the ball and the racket, and I’m whooshing around the court making impossible shots look routine. When that happens, I can’t miss. I mean, I play wicked tennis, but it never lasts more than a game or two, sometimes a whole set. But that’s what I love, when that thing happens.”
A warm wave, fired by hope, surged through my core. “That’s called being in the zone.”
“Duh, I know what it’s called. I didn’t just tumble out of the cradle.”
“You said that you loved winning. What if I guarantee to teach you how to win every time you step on court, regardless of the score?”
Silence filled the aftermath of my implied promise. He inched closer, and I felt something gel between us.
“That would be awesome, but how can you discount the score?”
“We’ll get to that later. How do you feel about me replacing your father?”
“If you help me to win, it’s cool. It’s not about him, it’s about me.” A condescending tone interjected itself into those last three words.
“Wrong. It’s about your game. There’s a big difference, and you need to learn that.” He had plenty to learn and plenty of attitude we’d need to cut through before we could start clicking in sync. “Connor, I only know one way to teach: you do what I say, every time I say, with no back-talk and no attitude.”
“Now you sound like my dad. I’m sick of his bullshit and the pressure he dumps on me. If you’re like him, then fuck it.”
We had gotten to the heart of it. He couldn’t take the pressure, and judging from the way Roy had behaved in Carmel, who could blame him? He didn’t believe he could be great, so he wanted the training to at least be fun. And he also had a point: I could lose some attitude myself. Lighten up, for Chrissake, I silently scolded myself.
I realized that my toughest job would be to convince him that he could be great.
The ends of his mouth lowered into a pout. What is it, I wondered, that makes a young man’s pouty expression so damned sexy?
“Okay, okay…. Let me point out that the advantage I have over your father is that I’ve been there, done it, and I know what it takes to get there. And one thing I’ve learned is, if you can’t take pressure, you won’t go far. I’m saying you need to consider whether you’re cut out for professional competition. I’d also like to say that you’re right: I came on too heavy. If you want my help, it’ll be hard work, but I’ll make it fun. I’ll meet you halfway if you do the same.”
“Suits me.”
“Mr. Bottega,” I said with a slight edge, still trying to establish some boundaries.
He paused. “Suits me, Mr. Bottega.” His pout turned into an embarrassed but pleasing grin.
“And anytime I sound like your father, you let me know.”
“I’ll nudge you in the ribs.”
“You give me a swift kick in the ass.”
“Deal.”
We wandered through the maze of courts that were drying nicely. He asked me what I loved about tennis, and I explained, “The fact that you are in control of your own destiny. You’re not at the mercy of a coach calling the plays or benching you, and how you perform depends on how you prepare before the match and how you keep your composure during play. The thing I love most is when I’m pressed to the wall and forced to dig deep, when I hit rock bottom and have to pull out a jackhammer to dig deeper until I find that hidden vein of strength I never knew existed.”
I paused for a moment, realizing the truth of my statement.
“Yes, that’s what I love most,” I said. “When I surprise myself.”
He took off his dark glasses and revealed a shine in his eyes.
Something had gelled, but I still needed to tread carefully.
“If you’re serious about the pro tour, we’ll need to work out twice every day. Three hours in the morning and the same in the afternoon.”
“What about school?”
“You’ll take correspondence courses over the Internet. Most of the teenagers on tour finish school that way.”
“But if I’m on court six hours every day, when will I have time?”
“At night. Connor, becoming a pro is a full time job. Greatness doesn’t happen without a price.”
“Okay, Mr. Bottega. School sucks anyway.”
“There’s one other thing I need to know,” I said. “I have the feeling that you don’t share your dad’s goal of you being number one in the world. What’s with that?”
“That’s his agenda. I dream about going to college and becoming a top surgeon. You know, healing sick people, especially kids, or doing clinical research to find cures for shit like cancer and AIDS, but we can’t afford college, let alone medical school. And if I can’t be a doctor, well, being a tennis pro is like, you know, the next best thing. I mean, it beats programming a computer or flipping burgers.”
“Are your grades good enough for pre-med if you had the money?”
“Totally. I mean, it’s all about memorizing shit in books, writing papers, and taking tests. How hard is that?”
He had forfeited his chance at an athletic scholarship by playing the pro tournament in Carmel, which bumped him out of amateur standing, but I explained that with enough hard work and a few good years on tour, he could win enough prize money to pay for college and medical school. “That’s easier than attaining number one,” I said, “but if tennis is your passion and you’re willing to pay the price, becoming a top-twenty player is achievable.”
He didn’t respond. I knew he felt that his dream was too remote even to hope for, but I couldn’t tell which option he yearned after.
“Anything you want to know about me?” I asked.
“Why did you quit? You coached Jared Stoderling, and he was skyrocketing up the rankings until you both vanished.”
Bingo. Just the question I had hoped for, because I didn’t want any uncomfortable surprises down the road for either of us. “I met Jared at tennis camp when we were teenagers, and we became lovers. On the tour, I relinquished my aspirations of being a player to help develop his career. After four hard years, when our dreams were coming to fruition, the ATP found out we were gay, and they blackballed us.”
Connor looked gut-shot. His jaw dropped, and his mouth made a perfect round opening, just about the size of his unblinking eyes. The bond between us shattered. He stepped back, shaking his head, visibly grappling with the shock of it.
In for a penny, in for a pound. “If we work together, some people might assume that we are intimate. They’ll whisper behind our backs at every tournament. You’d better be sure you can handle that before we get started, because once the rumor mill starts rolling, it’s unstoppable.”
A ladies’ foursome trooped by us on their way to the clubhouse. Their jewelry sparkled in the sunshine that had broken through the clouds. “Hello, Mr. Bottega,” they all crooned.
He waited until they had moved out of earshot before saying, “I’m straight!” His curt tone broadcast that he didn’t want anyone believing otherwise, not me and not anyone on the pro tour. He slipped his sunglasses back on and looked as though he was about to cut and run, but he asked, “You’re not interested in me? I mean, sexually?” His voice had turned shy.
“No, Connor. I’m not a chicken hawk.” I smiled, but he didn’t acknowledge my lame attempt at humor, so I pushed on. “Jared and I are still lovers. We have our problems, but there’s nobody else for me. Your virtue is categorically safe. It’s your reputation that may suffer.”
He visibly relaxed, even showed the hint of a grin. He stared at his sneakers and shook his head. “My dad’s a straight fascist. He hates gay people. Of course, he hates anybody that’s not Chinese.”
“If you still want my help, we’ll tell him and let the stuff hit the fan.”
“Why? It’s none of his business what you do off the court. None of mine either.”
I began to protest but stopped because his sudden attitude change baffled me. One minute he loo
ked ready to bolt, the next he seemed accepting. Could his only issue have been fear of me hitting on him?
“Does this mean you still want to work with me?”
“I need time to think.”
“Fair enough. Let me show you the rest of the layout here before you decide.”
The facility had a dozen pristine hard courts, but the two clay courts were my pride and joy. As we approached them, he veered off the concrete walkway and stepped onto the nearest court, sliding his foot across the moist clay. “If I could win any one tournament, I would choose the French Open. Can you teach me how to be a great dirt-baller?”
The clay court tennis that dominates Europe and Latin America connects more closely with my core values than the hard court tennis that prevails in North America. For me, clay courts represent the true spirit of the game, which champions finesse, patience, strategy, and endurance, whereas the hard court game is primarily one of aggression, short points, and instant gratification from blasting winners. Clay court tennis gives me satisfaction from playing long, grueling points and from the tactical thinking that goes into every game. Connor’s interest in becoming a dirt-baller hopefully meant we shared the same core values.
I nodded. Again, I saw my reflection in those dark circles of glass hiding his eyes.
I thought I felt something gelling again, but I couldn’t be sure. The fact that my facility had the only clay courts in San Francisco gave me an edge, but was it enough? “Talk it over with your father. Make sure you’re both comfortable with everything, and I mean everything.”
“Tell me one thing,” he said. “Can you make me a top contender on the terre battue?”
“I know what you need to get there. Whether you can learn from me is another question. We’ll just have to roll the dice and see.”
He took off his dark glasses again. The tentative set to his eyes transformed his entire face, making him ravishing, at least in my eyes.
“I know you can help my game, Mr. Bottega, but I’m not sure I can handle this gay thing. I mean, I don’t care that you’re gay, but it feels weird that people will assume I am too.”