by Alan Chin
His reluctance felt like a knife twisting in my gut, but I understood: he was proud. I liked that about him. I hesitated, knowing he needed more coaxing and that this opportunity was too momentous to let slip away, but I didn’t know what else to say. My safe job, my entire life, seemed like a low-salt, fat-free, sugarless diet. I wanted this badly.
“Go home and mull it over. If you’re interested, be here Saturday morning and we’ll make it happen. If not….” I paused and shrugged. “I wish you luck.” I tried to sound matter-of-fact, like it didn’t matter one way or the other, but I couldn’t mask the pleading tone in my voice.
Connor reached out and clasped my hand, shaking it firmly. “I’ll think it over, Mr. Bottega.”
He turned and jogged back to the clubhouse, leaving me in the center of my sanctuary, which suddenly felt way too small.
Chapter 4
BY THE time I began grade school, I was already haunted by visions of the perfect tennis player: Stefan Edberg. Watching him on television, scampering gazelle-like over the court, his hair falling across his boyish face like golden thatch, he overwhelmed me with his understated elegance. His ethereal serve-and-volley game—a balletic arch to his back and nimble glide to the net—seemed effortless. And ever since my first glimpse of his toned body squeezed into those virginal white shorts, I have worshiped at the altar of the male tennis player. As I neared puberty, his image meshed with the sexual energy that began to simmer in my chest. Since then, I’ve wanted to be, and wanted to love, a tennis player.
My father, half Shoshone and half Spanish, felt that his two hitches as a Marine helicopter pilot in Vietnam were the high point of his life, after which he became an insurance claims adjuster in Los Angeles. He pushed me toward team sports, football and basketball, as a way to toughen me, but to me, those sports had no grace, no symmetry. Edberg had demonstrated to me that sports were meant to be poetic, where you pit yourself against an opponent and the execution is breathtaking: a ballet solo spotlighting you while sumptuous music fills the surrounding void.
My mother emigrated from the province of Canton to Saigon, where she met my father during the war. She was by no means beautiful, but she had the most unique features of any mother in our neighborhood—tall and slender, a longish face with high cheekbones and slanted eyes, silky raven black hair—all of which she passed on to me. The only attribute I inherited from my father’s bloodline was hairless skin the color of sun-baked iodine.
Devout, dutiful, and Buddhist, my mother never assimilated into my father’s Catholic family. His clan sang the praises of Catholicism, but it played too many false and hypocritical notes for my ears. My mother’s lessons also troubled me, but for different reasons. Buddhism stretched my mind into new dimensions, but the pure sound of the Dharma always brought clarity whenever I achieved a still mind.
I felt the same way about my mother, drawing close to her in ways that I never could with my father. Early on, she recognized my love for tennis and for tennis players. During my pre-teen years, before the sexual part of my obsession blossomed, she enrolled me at the local tennis academy, where I learned the game.
But she, more than anyone, taught me the inner game. Relying on her knowledge of Zen, she taught me to focus on the razor’s edge of the unwavering present. That, she explained, was how to expand the chi, the Chinese word for the indwelling force. The Japanese call it ki, the Hindus call it Prana, the Apache call it diyin, but it’s all the same force.
She taught me how to do what she called a power-shift—that is, through posture, breath control, and an empty mind, to shift my focus from the thoughts in my head to the feelings in my abdomen, where chi energy generates. That lowered my center of gravity and energized my body with this chi force. This shift in perspective is like flipping a switch. The tension and anxiety that accrue in the mind dissolve, bringing about a greater awareness, balance, and composure—all of which helped my tennis game.
I met Jared Stoderling during my first year at Piedmont Hills Tennis Academy. Already in his third year, he had developed a strong, tawny body. His fawn-colored hair and a Milky Way of freckles scattered across his face gave him a farm-boy image that matched the calm wonder in his pale gray-green eyes.
I began loving him before I realized we shared the same passion for tennis. I heard him play the piano in the players’ lounge, which impressed me. Even at that young age, he could sight read well enough to pull off a Bach invention, but only because he played fast enough to hide his mistakes.
We became inseparable; took the same classes at school and practiced tennis together for three hours every weekday afternoon. On weekends we augmented our tennis with hiking the hills, boogie-boarding at the beach, and lazing around the yard daydreaming about winning the French Open Doubles Championship on the red clay at Roland Garros stadium in Paris: the legendary terre battue.
Jared slept at my house every weekend, mine rather than his because I had bunk beds. We stayed up late doing homework and making plans for the next day. We never discussed girls, sex, or any sport other than tennis. When my father called for lights-out, we stripped down to our jockey shorts. Jared took the top bunk and I the lower. I loved drifting off to sleep with the rhythm of his soft breathing in my ears.
By morning, we’d be snuggled together in the lower bunk. Every sleepover, before dawn, Jared would slip in next to me, and I would wake up cocooned in his warmth. For six years, we never did anything more than cuddle as morning sunlight bled through the blinds.
The summer before our senior year, we made love for the first time while camping with six other boys at Yosemite Valley. The hike from the valley floor up Vernal Falls trail to Little Yosemite Valley took all day. As the sun set, we raised our two-man tent beside a gurgling stream about a stone’s throw from the other tents.
We all slurped spaghetti and tomato sauce around a campfire while the sky turned a deep shade of lavender. We all wished on the first star, which was probably Mars or Venus, but we didn’t care.
James Glader, our tennis team captain, brought out a quart bottle of Wild Turkey, unscrewed the cap, and passed it around the circle. As I tilted my head back to swallow, I saw black clouds boiling over the treetops. Gusts of wind rolled through the trees and drowned out the buzz of insects and the chirp-song of frogs. The bottle made its way around the circle again before the fire hissed from a raindrop falling on the embers.
I glanced up, and an icy drop of water stung my cheek.
“Fuck,” James moaned.
“What are we going to do?” I asked, all wide-eyed and nervous as the sky swelled with rainclouds.
Jared patted me on the shoulder and signaled with a nod of his head, saying in his relaxed, easy way, “You boys can sit around soggy ashes eating cold marshmallows if you want, but I’m heading for my tent. See you in the morning.”
I stood up. The wind, now armed with flints of rain, struck my face. I turned my back to it, followed Jared to the tent, and crawled in after him. The world collapsed behind a veil of rain. Jared lit a candle. I placed it in the candleholder and hung it from the peaked roof. We knelt side by side like alter boys waiting for the sacraments, peeling off our clothes and spreading out our sleeping bags.
He sprawled on his bag with his head resting in the crook of his arm. The wet strands of hair plastered to his forehead merged with the candlelight to form a halo around his freckled face. I stared into his eyes. They widened, but he did not look away.
I had admired his nakedness in the gym hundreds of times and had pressed into his warm curves every weekend, so I don’t know why this time felt different. It could have been the effect of the whiskey or perhaps the distinct feeling of being abandoned by the rest of the world, but for the first time, an irresistible intimacy flared between us, as if something tangible had ignited our insides. Even at that age, I knew from the way he offered himself to me that I would love him and he would accept my love. Those were our destined roles: me the lover, he the loved. He would always maintain
an aloof control, while I orbited him like a lesser moon.
What happened next is seared in my memory for eternity. He pulled me toward him, bringing my face to his until our lips brushed. My hand rested on his chest. The heat under his skin felt like a fever rising. Our hearts pounded to the same cadence. After a hesitation, I kissed him back, a long and supple kiss.
A delicious rush of electricity spilled down my spine, exploding in my genitals. His tongue conquered my mouth; all the while, I felt my head reeling. Those lips, their sumptuous softness, set my mind adrift in intoxication. His breath slid down the nape of my neck, curling over my chest. The universe tumbled away, and nothing existed except the feel of his lips on mine and the mounting need in my groin.
My cheek rubbed his and found its way to his hair: silky, smelling of rain. My body quivered like the galvanic response of a nervous animal. He ran a hand down my flank, gentling me like an unbroken colt.
The rain became a steady rhythm on the tent, its syncopated melody merged with our breathing. As the candle burned down, my lips and fingertips explored his contours. His eyes half closed, lips parted, he moaned from somewhere deep below his sternum. I tasted every part of him—neck, nipples, flanks—feeding on the muscles rippling beneath his honeyed skin. His hips thrust against me, grinding his erection into my flesh.
His thighs parted, and I buried my face in the hot silkiness of his genitals. Every nerve ending in my body ignited. We both cried out, barely audible groans that came up from the pelvis and echoed in the tent. The rain muffled our cries. Sweat-drenched and panting, our body rhythms slowed, falling into harmony with the sound of the rain. A heaviness overtook me, and I nuzzled into his warmth as sleep took me.
As dawn’s light filled the interior of our tent, the harsh sounds of clanking pots and raw cursing voices echoed from around the fire pit. I awoke to the imposing weight of Jared’s body pressing down on me. His face nestled in my hair, and his legs threaded with mine. I pretended to sleep so that I could enjoy the feel of him for a few minutes longer, but he lifted his arm, and his fingertips brushed the hair from my face. He kissed my cheek. I opened my eyes when he whispered, “Morning, lover-boy.”
I gazed at him, and he became shy until I kissed him back and whispered that I loved him, that my feelings would never diminish, that I would love him with my last breath. We made love again, making the others wait, not caring if they knew.
Our passion had survived the daylight, and from that morning on, I have kept my word.
WE SPENT our senior year on the practice courts, playing the junior circuit, and making love. School became an afterthought to keep our parents off our backs. Neither of us saw ourselves as gay, which shows just how naïve we were at that age. The utter lack of gay role models contributed to our naïveté. The ones that were visible—effeminate, fluttering, affected men with high, breathless voices—didn’t seem to apply to us. We were two boys who happened to fall in love. Our schoolmates couldn’t begin to fathom the bond we shared.
On the junior circuit, we both played singles, and we always paired together in doubles. Jared became the more aggressive player both on the courts and in bed. He excelled at doubles but preferred singles. With him, tennis was a fight for supremacy, pitting himself against an opponent, one against one.
I loved doubles: two moving as one, backing each other up, talking strategy between points, setting him up for the put-away, smacking high-fives after big points. For me, tennis was all about merging with my partner to form one cohesive force.
After graduation, we both applied for and were granted full athletic scholarships to the University of Southern California, majoring in Physical Education. Our plan was to transfer to Stanford eventually for advanced degrees in Sports Medicine. My wish upon a star that night in Yosemite had been granted: we would room together, take the same classes, play on the same team.
That summer before classes began, Jared won back-to-back tournaments in Long Beach and San Diego, which earned him enough points for a slot in the US Open Juniors competition in New York. The Open is played over the two weeks surrounding Labor Day, which meant that it would finish just as our fall semester began. We flew to New York, crazed with excitement.
On opening day, we roamed the expansive grounds like puppies. We joked that we should feel right at home because the National Tennis Center is built in the borough of Queens (and although it didn’t register then, that was the first time I can remember either of us referring to ourselves as gay). Our laughter soon turned to wonder as we meandered through the maze of twenty-three hard courts and three stadium courts, each one showcasing tennis’s brightest stars warming up for round one.
The first round of the junior competition didn’t begin until the second week, giving us seven days to saturate ourselves in the euphoria of the tournament before Jared’s first match.
The top stars played in the 23,000-seat Arthur Ashe Stadium or the 10,000-seat Louis Armstrong Stadium. Both were loud, chaotic, and electric: the quintessential New York experience. I preferred watching matches on the outer, less populated courts where the players’ rankings were lower, but we could sit close enough to see the sweat dripping from their faces.
As week one progressed, we arrived every morning by nine o’clock for an hour-long practice. We spent the rest of the day zigzagging from court to court, stargazing. We caroused the grounds ten hours each day and were bushed by sunset.
Each night we mustered just enough energy to find an Italian or Indian or Chinese restaurant and wolf down dinner before dragging ourselves back to the hotel, where we watched the night matches on television while holding each other between the sheets. Just when I believed life couldn’t get any better, week two hit me square in the face like a lightening bolt.
Jared played an eleven a.m. match each day as he fought his way through the draw. We arrived at the practice courts early, drilled for an hour, then hustled to the players’ cafeteria to tank up on carbs. More than anything, I loved preparing Jared for his matches, but it was also thrilling to stroll around the grounds in my sweat-soaked tennis clothes while carrying my gear, basking in the crowd’s reaction to me. They stared at me like I stared at the top stars. I treasured those looks of homage even though I didn’t deserve them yet.
Jared fought his way through four rounds without dropping a set. His killer forehand dictated play and his single-minded attacking style crushed his opponent’s confidence. He dropped a set in his quarterfinal match and fought off a match point before winning his semifinal match.
That night in the hotel room, exhausted and happy and proud, we made love five times. The vitality of his winning kept driving us on. By morning I was spent, but Jared’s sexual energy had only begun to peak.
It dawned bright and balmy the day Jared played for the juniors’ title. We performed our usual routine: warm-up, carb-packing, rubdown. I expected Jared to show signs of nervousness, but he seemed to drift in an interstellar void, a quiet zone I’d never seen before, as if he had played the match in his mind, point by point, and already knew the outcome.
His opponent, a lanky Swede named Tomas Becham, had a monstrous serve, dominating forehand, and cocky swagger that broadcasted he was equally as confident.
The match became a baseline slugfest. Jared faced an adversary who could not only chase down his forehand bullets, but could rocket them back with equal force. They split the first two grueling sets without either player breaking serve. At four-all in the third, Jared rolled his ankle while trying to spin on a dime for a ball hit behind him. From the painful way he limped to his chair, I assumed he would concede the match, but he showed more heart than I gave him credit for. He called for the trainer, who gave him a handful of painkillers and taped his ankle, and play resumed.
At six-all in the third set, Jared stepped to the baseline and served an ace for the first point of the deciding tiebreaker. Each player honed his concentration and amplified his aggressiveness, which produced the kind of unprecedented theater fou
nd in the game’s elite competitors.
Becham got up a mini-break at 5-5 and served for the match at 6-5. Jared fought back from the brink, winning the point with the last thing anyone expected of him: a drop volley. Becham smashed a service return winner to stay in it at 7-8. Jared saved another match point by sticking an angle volley winner at 11-12. The match ended in dramatic fashion at 15-16, when Becham attempted a drop shot that clipped the tape, hung over the net for a heartbeat before dropping back on his side of the net.
I screamed and jumped five feet straight up out of my seat. I had never been more in love than at that moment when Jared raised both fists over his head and glanced up at me. When our eyes locked, a pinch of nitroglycerine detonated inside my head, and the entire universe aligned into one throbbing sensation of perfection.
That night, during a tandoori chicken dinner in Little India, just off 3rd Avenue, Jared told me that he was turning pro. I shouldn’t have been shocked, considering his championship win and the thrill we had experienced of being on the inside of the tournament, but we were supposed to fly home the next day and start classes the day after. It was a done deal and a day away. My dream of our attending college together imploded, leaving me stunned and crushed. The real shocker came when he reached across the table and laced his fingers through mine.
“I can’t do it without you,” he said. “Be my hitting partner. We’ll do it together.”
I didn’t know what to think. It happened too fast. I was not willing to give up my college aspirations, but they seemed empty without Jared. I shook my head.
“Give it a year,” he said. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll quit and we’ll go back to school. This opportunity may never come again. Who knows what will happen if we don’t do this now? Daniel, we’re an awesome team. Together we can be great.”