by Alan Chin
SUMMER faded, and the holidays crept near. Connor progressed steadily. A combination of tai chi, Zen meditation, and tennis drills taught him to concentrate without thinking. He became adept at silencing his mind, which allowed his actions to flow as free and smooth as the autumn wind. His daily improvements nurtured a growing inner assurance that he could play in his zone without forced effort. This new freedom, this non-striving, had him centered and performing spontaneously. Most importantly, for the first time in a long time, he began to enjoy tennis.
Connor and Spencer met Shar every weekday morning for thirty minutes of Zen meditation followed by two hours of cardiovascular exercise and weight training. While Spencer attended school, Connor and I drilled from nine to noon. We broke for lunch and rested until they both showed up at three o’clock sharp. The afternoon session mirrored the morning one: fifteen minutes of tai chi to empty our minds, fifteen minutes of easy warm-up, then drill, drill, drill.
In my book, there are three types of tennis players. The first are the aggressive baseliners who stalk the back of the court, attack with heavy groundstrokes, and only move forward when forced. They rely on driving their opponents out of position and then cracking a winner into the open court, all from behind the baseline. Both Jared and Connor fell into this category.
The second type is the serve-and-volleyer, who rushes to the net at the first opportunity and tries to win the point with a sharp angle volley, giving his opponent no time to react.
Then there is the category I fell into, the retriever. This style of play relies on footwork, speed, and patience to race down every ball and send it back until the opponent gets frustrated and makes an error going for too big of a shot.
I tried to mold Connor into the type of well-rounded athlete who merged the attributes of all three styles. The underlying purpose of every drill, however, was to quiet Connor’s mind. He tended to lose focus because of his strong inclination to judge his performance. As soon as he judged a shot as either good or bad, the mental wheels began to turn, and once turning, they spun faster and harder.
Judgment opens the door for worry, fear, regret, hope, and distraction, all of which create tightness and stifle spontaneity. So when we practiced a particular combination of shots, I paid close attention. At the first sign of a frown after an error or a grin after nailing a difficult shot, I stopped him and we spent a half-minute silencing his mind before continuing. The idea was not to stop him from making judgments (an impossible undertaking) but to train him to realize when he did and to recover his inner composure.
His mind became strong, as did his body. He worked out five times a week, and Shar had him on a muscle building diet: moderate amounts of lean red meat, fish, yogurt, fresh fruit, raw vegetables, whole-grained cereals, and plenty of brown rice.
Connor eating red meat morphed into a battle with Roy. As Buddhists, the Lins were predominately vegetarian. Roy stood firm that his son would not eat any food that had to be killed. When I pointed out that both he and Connor ate fish, he blushed and avowed that fish did not fall into the same category as animals. I responded by telling him that even plants are living creatures, and hundreds of them were killed each day to fill his family’s rice bowl.
He stopped crunching his Tums. “So, now I’m a hypocrite?”
“I’m suggesting that you both need to make sacrifices for Connor to realize his potential.”
That more or less won me the argument, but I had the feeling that Roy regretted hiring me.
I probed Connor about his religious beliefs and found that we were similar in our approach to Buddhism. Neither of us endeavored to attain a higher level of spiritual enlightenment. We tried to sustain a lifestyle that engendered compassion and respect for all living beings.
Our differences lay in the fact that I always strove to stay in the now, not bothered with past regrets or future hopes. Connor had learned to do that while on court, but it was slow to take root in the rest of his life.
One gray November afternoon, however, as the three of us performed our routine, I had trouble staying in the now because I had a surprise for Connor, and the anticipation nagged me. After two hours of volley drills, I had the boys play a set to incorporate what we’d worked on, as we did most afternoons to wrap up.
Two games into the set, Connor began to dominate, which always happened when he found his zone. He overpowered Spencer, who, like me, was purebred retriever.
The clouds broke open, and the sun spilled warmth over the back of my neck. Over the sound of the ball popping and sneakers squeaking, I heard a raw voice behind me:
“Who around here do I have to fuck to play a match?”
“That would be me,” I said, turning around.
Jared pulled me into his arms. He hadn’t shaved in three days, and his shadow burned my cheek. I didn’t care. His affection was such a welcome surprise that my eyes teared.
A dirty little thought wormed its way into my head: was he putting on a show for the boys? His breath touched my cheek, and I instinctively inhaled, checking for the odor of whiskey. Finding a trace, I dismissed it. Caught up in his magnetic field, I didn’t care.
I reached up and touched a vein that ran along the soft of his throat. The muscle under his skin trembled. I kissed him and brushed my cheek over his stubble, burning myself.
“Hey, lover man, you sure about this? You haven’t played a competitive match in years. Might dent the ego to have a teenager stomp your beautiful butt.”
“Any body parts he bruises you can kiss and make better.”
“Promise?”
“Besides, it’ll be fun to see what I still have.”
I leaned my hips into his groin. “Lover man, you still have plenty. It’s just rusty.”
He pressed his head against me, forehead touching forehead. “We’ll see about that.” He kissed me again, and in the quiet wake of his kiss, the surrounding sounds became loud: rustling leaves overhead, the pop of the ball, the chirp of tennis shoes on pavement, the boys’ insistent grunts.
My knees went weak. After ten years, he could still turn my insides to quivering jelly. I glanced at my office and thought about hustling him in there and locking the door.
“After,” he said, reading my mind. “We’ll shower together.”
He squeezed my hand and turned to watch the boys play, studying Connor’s strokes, footwork, and attacking style of play during an amazing twenty-five-ball rally. He whistled softly. He glanced back at me, and I saw it in his eyes: the boys were far better than he imagined.
“You’ll do fine,” I said, realizing that his pre-match butterflies had quadrupled in size.
“Christ. With a kid this good, you’re walking right back into the lion’s den.”
“Your help will guarantee that happens.”
I felt him shudder, and he looked like a lost child. I couldn’t tell if it was concern for me or the thought that I was leaving him behind. Perhaps it was both. I leaned into his side and whispered, “This time will be different. Trust me.”
“Is he as good as I was?”
“I’d hate to stake my life on the difference.”
He shouldered his bag, and we ambled toward court one. Connor nailed a winner to win the set. Surprise lit up their faces as they jogged to the sideline and shook Jared’s hand.
“I’ve entered Connor in the Sacramento tournament. That gives us two weeks to prepare,” I explained. “It’s a challenger event that attracts players who are ranked from one-fifty to two hundred. They’ll be good, but not the same caliber we’ll see at the tier one and two tournaments. I asked Jared to give Connor some practice playing against a big hitter.”
Connor’s mouth opened slightly. He watched Jared pull two rackets from his bag, each one labeled with a pet name: Thumper and Bambam. Connor’s eyes widened as Jared measured the string tension on both by tapping them against each other. He selected Thumper.
I asked Spencer to warm up Jared while I strategized with Connor. Spencer jogged to t
he baseline, but Jared called him back inside the service line. Spencer’s eyebrows arched as he realized that this ex-pro wanted to warm up as I had taught him and Connor, starting off slow at the service line and working their way back to the baseline.
Connor studied Jared’s strokes, becoming as quiet as a crypt. His face paled to near white, and his hands began to tremble. He turned and peered right through me. Emotions churned in the depth of his eyes. “He’s too good,” he said with a slight quiver in his voice.
“You’re letting him beat you before you start. Don’t be impressed with him until after the match. Do exactly what we’ve worked on.”
He shook his head as if to say I was asking the impossible.
I shouldn’t have surprised him, I thought. He needed time to warm up to the idea.
“What’s the worst that can happen?”
“He’ll mop the floor with me.”
“You’ve already lost zero and zero to a player half as good as you, and with five hundred people watching. What’s more humiliating than that? Losing to Jared is a stroll in the park.”
Connor dropped his head and stared at the hard rubber toes of his sneakers.
“The worst thing that can happen is if you kick his ass, which is possible but unlikely.”
Connor glanced up. “What’s so bad about that?”
“Because you’ll realize how damn good you are and you’ll expect that kind of performance every time. That’s not bad as long as you understand you can’t always play to your potential. No one can.”
He studied Jared again. Silent moments passed before he asked, “So how do I beat him?”
Bingo! Pride surged through me, and I almost hugged him.
“The pressure is all on him,” I said. “He’s the pro worried about losing to a nobody. This is your first chance to play someone of his caliber, so cherish each point, have fun, and keep your mind empty—just like we’ve worked on. As far as how to play him: keep the ball deep to his backhand, let him crack a few forehands but keep him away from the net. The main thing is bust your butt to keep every ball in play. Let him pound the ball, but make him pound it over and over. Make him believe that you’ll never give up. That will frustrate him. Any questions?”
Connor shook his head. His chin trembled, but at least he grinned. Again, I felt an overwhelming desire to hug him.
Jared smashed a few practice serves while Spencer loped over and joined me on the bench. Connor grabbed his racket and stepped to the baseline.
As they played out the first game, I couldn’t help but stare from side to side comparing the two. Connor’s Asian features—slim hips, thick dark hair, amber complexion—all fused into an exotic yet youthful countenance. He sometimes seemed frivolous, a bit of a dreamer, and was quick with a laugh. Jared was rugged—more compact and muscular, fawn-colored hair, gray-green eyes, freckles, stubbly beard—giving him an all-American manliness. He had a compelling manner and uncommonly quick reflexes.
Connor was a giver, always concerned that the people around him had what they needed. Jared was a taker; he came first, and the people around him could fight over what was left. If you took them both to a restaurant, Connor would study the menu for nutritional value versus price, order vegetarian dishes, and only enough to slay his hunger, while Jared would be gluttonous for everything and would order twice what he could eat. Earth and air were not more opposite, and yet their style of play was so similar that you would think they were Siamese twins.
It occurred to me that many of these differences were caused by experiences that Jared had suffered while on tour, events that reshaped his personality like a pressure-cooker changes the texture of its contents.
Had Jared been so different from Connor at age eighteen? I remembered his playfulness, his easy smile, his passion for life. I shook my head, admitting that they were shucked from the same pod. The strain of competing combined with the discrimination had overhauled Jared’s personality. I leaned forward, scrutinizing them, knowing that Connor would undergo a similar makeover. I hoped I would be a better mentor this time around.
Jared rolled over Connor in the first four games, winning almost every rally. Jared’s confidence grew with every point. His body language exuded his growing arrogance. He was physically large, but he began to look like a giant.
Watching Jared play was like reading certain poems that caused an ice-blue river to tumble down my spine. He was rusty but still showed remarkable talent. He held serve to go up 5-0. He jogged to the bench at the changeover. Confidence made his freckles glow even redder against his tawny skin.
Connor dragged himself to the bench, head bent, sweat dripping from his face. “You’re not letting yourself into the zone,” I said. “What are you afraid of? You think he’s better than you?”
His head jerked up, and he impaled me with those almond-shaped eyes. He flushed a scalded red, and his face pinched together, causing creases to form across his forehead. For just a heartbeat, I thought he would walk off the court.
“Because if that’s what you think, you’re probably right: you’ll never be as good as him. But it’s not too late to change your mind.”
“Come on, Con,” Spencer said, handing him the water bottle. “He’s good, sure, but you’re better. Just pretend he’s me and play your game.” They glared at each other, and I swear I saw something tangible pass between them. It reminded me of that first day on the beach when they frolicked naked in the surf. Something twisted in my gut that felt like shards of glass, but this time it was hope, not envy, that inflamed me.
Connor glanced back at me, and I saw his eyes pleading for help.
“Change something, anything,” I said. “Try something he’s not expecting.”
Connor jogged to the baseline and drilled an ace down the centerline. The creases across his forehead visibly relaxed. He scored the next two points with hard first serves to Jared’s body followed by coming forward and sticking his volleys. His forehead grew smooth again. He clinched the game with an ace out wide.
Spencer leaped straight off the bench. “COME ON!”
Jared held serve to take the first set and rode his momentum to win the first two games in the second, breaking Connor at love. But overconfidence made him relax enough to allow Connor to step up his game.
I witnessed my wildest hopes coming true. Connor tuned out everything but his breathing and seeing the ball. That allowed him to anticipate where Jared would hit to, and he got there faster, giving himself more time to set up and hit a superior shot. As he strung together points, then games, I saw a pure athletic aura surround him, shimmering in the sunlight.
He hit a drop shot to lure Jared to the net, nailing a perfect topspin lob to break Jared and tie the set at two-all. In the next game, Connor repeatedly utilized the one-two punch—serving out wide and hitting to the open court.
Spencer leaned toward me. “He’s zoned in now.”
“He’s beginning to believe.”
So was I. Fire surged down my spine to ignite my testicles. If this stallion could maintain this level of play and stay injury-free, we’d be knocking on the door of the top fifty within a year. “Giddy with excitement” is no mere phrase. My nerve endings sizzled with joy and fear.
Concern showed in Jared’s body language. He had assumed he would win, but that plan had derailed. His composure dissolved. If Connor could somehow secure the set, he’d probably win the match. I felt sorry for Jared; losing after securing a commanding lead is demoralizing.
They both held serve through the next four games. Jared served to stay in the set at 4-5. He double-faulted the first point and snarled at himself. He picked up the pace, hitting harder and playing fast, as if he wanted to end the match as soon as possible. I winked at Spencer, who sat biting his nails to the quick.
Connor returned Jared’s serves and rallied fiercely. At 30-40, Connor had a set point. Jared looked stunned. He hurried through his service motion and double-faulted again, handing Connor the set with a red ribbon
. He swiped at the court with his racket and unleashed a chilling growl.
At the changeover, I asked Connor, “Are you having fun?” I already knew the answer.
He flashed a wide smile. “Totally!”
The first four games of the third set were more of what I’d hoped for. Both players ratcheted up and played superlative tennis. Jared brushed his disappointments aside, and he flowed in the moment. Connor hung with him, toe to toe. The surprise of it pushed up through my chest and lodged in my throat.
Word spread throughout the complex, and a dozen people rushed to the bleachers. Soon thirty spectators cheered each point. It had the feel of a championship match. Carrie Bennett sat in the first row, astonishment visible on her face. Even she had begun to believe.
Jared broke Connor and gave it right back. The set went to five-all. Spencer was as white as a sheet. The crowd sizzled with tension.
Goose bumps covered my arms when Connor spanked an ace out wide to go up 5-all, 40-15. One more point and Jared would serve to stay in the match. Jared let out a primal, guttural howl. His right arm flew up, and he tomahawked his racket. The frame bounced, somersaulted twice, and tumbled into the net.
At that moment, I saw something register in Connor’s eyes. He had played in a dreamlike bubble of composure for two sets, but Jared’s paroxysm had ruptured that bubble, making him conscious of the enormity of what he was about to accomplish, and once aware of it, he peeked ahead to the finish line. Creases reappeared on his forehead.
On game point, he missed his first serve by a foot and spun in a weak, nervous-looking second. Jared chipped and charged. The move threw Connor off, and he sprayed the ball wide. The next point was a carbon copy.
Jared’s tantrum had triggered a momentum hemorrhage, and I realized he had done it on purpose. His outburst was no fit of uncontrollable anger, but rather a deliberate bit of gamesmanship.
Smart, I thought, very smart.
Connor played the following point conservatively, obviously hoping that Jared would make an error. His defensive play let Jared seize control, running Connor side to side until he cracked a winner off Connor’s weak reply.