Match Maker

by Alan Chin

His performance boost came from more than his new attitude, though. Despite our differences, Shar had taken my criticism to heart, cutting back his workouts and increasing his protein and vitamin B intake. She weaned him down to a one-hour workout every other day.

  Connor welcomed the cutback because Spencer had stopped participating, so it was no longer fun. His overstressed body began the slow process of healing itself, and the results on his physical abilities and stamina were dramatic.

  The San Diego tournament in December had a different outcome. Every day, just like in the Long Beach tournament, I scouted Connor and Jared’s opponents: identifying their strengths, weaknesses, patterns, favorite shots in key situations, what worked against them. All that information went into my notebook, and from those notes, I created game plans.

  The plans were a roadmap to keep my players on the most effective route to the goal. There were detours along the way—the opponents sometimes came up with surprises, and my boys occasionally found themselves lost—but the basic route was established in the plan, and it kept them on course.

  A plan didn’t guarantee success, but it gave them a tremendous advantage. We discussed the strategies over dinner, and we practiced executing the plans during the next day’s warm-up. This time, they both stuck to the program.

  Connor cruised into the semifinals without dropping a set but lost a hard-fought match to Juan Gomez, a player from Mexico City who had an ATP ranking of 96. Jared beat Gomez in the final to win his second title in a row.

  During the trophy ceremony, a paunchy coach sitting in the players’ section yelled, “Way to swing your purse, you fucking fairy!” Snickers peppered the crowd around us, and the faces of the officials awarding the trophy all turned the same broiled shade of pink. The gossip had begun to spread.

  I watched Jared’s eyes for any reaction, but I found none. It was the opening volley of an arduous battle, but rather than letting it affect him, his success made him focus harder. Our new mantra became drill, baby, drill, and drill some more, and as long as we won, who cared what they thought or even if they thought?

  Encouraged by their performance in San Diego, I sent applications for Jared and Connor to play the qualifier’s tournament to compete for spots in the SAP Open tier-two tournament held in San Jose, California, during the second week in February. Three weeks went by without a word. We received a polite but firm letter explaining that they had not received the applications until after the deadline. They were, of course, very sorry, and they didn’t mention the word “gay,” but we all knew why we didn’t get in.

  Our next shot was in mid-March, the tournament in Indian Wells, California—a pleasant thirty-minute drive east from Palm Springs. This time, I sent the applications certified-mail return receipt and mailed them two weeks before the deadline. I entered them both in the singles competition and also paired them in doubles. This would be Connor’s first chance to test himself against the sport’s elite in a major competition.

  As the tournament approached, we settled into a new routine. Jared stopped giving tennis lessons, quit drinking, and rejoined Shar and Connor for their dawn workouts. I attached a punching bag to the rafters of our living room, and for an hour every evening, Jared boxed with the bag. He enjoyed boxing as much as tennis, so I encouraged him, and although I was nervous about the possibility of him bruising his hands, I loved what it did for his footwork and balance. His body responded to the workouts, growing stronger, faster, more agile—not to mention the stress relief.

  Each day, Jared arrived at my courts as Connor finished his morning practice. He always brought sandwiches, and we enjoyed a quiet bite in my office or, if the sun was shining, we’d stroll into the trees beside the ninth fairway and eat lunch picnic-style.

  He always arrived ready to work. I had to slow him down during lunch because he felt so anxious to start the drills. His hands would sometimes shake while we ate, like a junkie needing a fix. I would run my fingers through his hair or along the curve of his neck to calm him. He needed that touch. He often clung to me like a man at sea clings to a life preserver.

  Once we stepped onto the court, however, he relaxed and became focused, attacking each drill with tenacity. As his game improved, he relaxed more and began to enjoy himself. Often I caught him smiling to himself after nailing a difficult shot, and I occasionally heard the sonorous ring of his laughter when he managed to amaze himself.

  Connor and Spencer arrived separately around three thirty, and we went right to work. Connor’s new goal of besting Jared became an obsession, and nothing could hold him back. But unlike Jared, he was no longer having fun. He became serious. Also, he and Spencer often traded bitter and catty remarks. For a while, Connor referred to Spencer as “Harman’s boy-toy,” until Spencer retorted that at least no one was paying Harman to fuck him. After that, they lapsed into a cool silence whenever the other was near.

  It saddened me that they had misplaced that playful spark of puppy love that had made me so envious that first day on the beach. I encouraged Spencer to keep coming to practice because he enjoyed the workouts and we needed a fourth for doubles practice. I also felt he was a beautiful person whom I had begun to love in a kid-brother way.

  I kept hoping Spencer would stop dating Harman so he and Connor could recapture that intimacy, but as time passed, he fell into profound bliss. He often showed up with a contented glow, like a new mother, and I knew where he had spent the previous night. Even if they had split up, I’m not sure he and Connor could have recaptured what they had shared. Some things can never be rekindled.

  During the first six months of training, I had worked on improving Connor’s stroke production and footwork, but especially to focus his mind to make the power-shift. The Japanese call it Mushin: the state of mind that Samurai warriors used in battle. It means the still center. It’s the ability to stay calm and read your opponent while attempting to redirect his aggression. Mushin is to remain unbiased, to have no emotional attachments, to stay open and flexible like a willow in a strong wind. If you control your mind in this way, you control your opponent as well by making him react to you rather than you reacting to him.

  In February, I switched our focus to play-strategy. Each day we studied a single stroke—a kick serve, a backhand slice, an inside-out forehand—getting Connor to absorb the power that each stroke contained and what circumstances were best to use each particular weapon in his arsenal. I explained that each stroke is a chess piece: each one moves differently, moves his opponent differently, and contributes to his game in a specific way.

  We discussed the mathematical aspects of the game, understanding the geometric angles and trajectories and why it is critical to control the center of the court, like the center of the chessboard, and use angle shots to keep the opponent scrambling.

  After two weeks, we switched from geometry to algebra. I explained that the net is the equal sign, and to find the answer implied by the circumstance, he needed to work the equation from both sides of the equal sign. Changing something on one side of the equation means a change must occur on the other side. To find the winning solution, the unknown value of x or y, requires calm and relentless logic.

  Using the principle of algebra, I taught him how to read an opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. That way, he could modify his shot selection in order to change the other side of the equal sign—to make the opponent adapt to him.

  Tennis is a game of tactics between two adversaries who hold clashing ideas. The one with the clearest plan for both attacking and defense will control the opponent and thereby control the match. That is why it was imperative to have a solid game plan but also be able to read the opponent and hone the game plan as the match progresses.

  That is the beauty of tennis. It’s a thinking person’s game, like chess. A great player must read in a split-second what’s happening during a point and change tactics—moving from defense, to neutral, to offense, and back to defense—all in the blink of an eye. At the pro level, the top players h
ave all the strokes, the footwork, and the burning desire to win, but it’s the players who can read the circumstances and adjust in order to control the match who consistently win.

  I named each one of my strategies for gaining control of an opponent. Many of these tactics I gleaned from Miyamoto Musashi’s classic book of Samurai strategy, The Book of Five Rings. The Double Attack from the West. The Flying over the Charging Tiger. The Flowing Water Cut. Lunge and Slash. The Chinese Monkey’s Attack. Sand in the Eyes. To Cut off a Wing. To Hold down the Pillow. Use the Unseen Sword to Stab at the Heart. And the most effective of all, To Become the Enemy. Day by day, I taught Connor everything I knew, and he absorbed it all like a dry sponge.

  A week before the tournament, Roy drove Connor, Jared, Shar and me to Indian Wells in his new twelve-seater van (bought, no doubt, with Connor’s winnings from San Diego) to play the four-day qualifier event leading into the Open.

  We stayed at a seedy Motel 6, a ten-minute drive from the courts, and ate at a greasy-spoon called John’s, where we could get three eggs and a short stack for a couple of bucks.

  The desert climate in March was sunny, mid-eighties days and frigid nights.

  Thirty-two players, ranked from 80 to 200 in the world, competed for the eight open slots in the main-draw tournament. Connor and Jared needed to win at least three matches to qualify for a slot. It was a diverse group of players: teenagers on the rise, journeymen still chasing the dream, stars battling back from injuries. Most of the qualie players were talented, hungry to prove themselves, and unknown. Connor fit right in.

  A huge pressure weighs on a player during a qualifier event. It’s all or nothing. You either make it to the big dance or you thumb a ride back home. The lucky eight players get a decent paycheck (a first-round loss in the main draw earns $2,000), chauffeured cars, and a free hotel room for the week. The losers get nada.

  Every morning we were up at dawn for a carb-packing breakfast at John’s followed by a two-hour workout where we practiced the day’s game plan. Jared and Connor downed energy bars at nine thirty, played their matches at ten, and we were back at John’s for lunch by twelve thirty.

  Jared won three matches before falling to Justin Greer, the highest ranked player. Connor breezed through the draw, winning every match. He was firing on all cylinders, and, although I was pleased, a stab of anxiety had me worried that he would peak before the real tournament began. But both my boys had made it into the main draw of a Masters Series event, and my glow of happiness out-shone my fears.

  On Thursday, we drove back to San Francisco. It seemed crazy to drive ten hours to stay just two days before returning to Indian Wells, but it proved beneficial. As Roy’s van pulled into our driveway, I saw Spencer sitting on a bulging suitcase by our front door. His face was shaded with gloom.

  While we were gone, he explained as we stood in our living room, he had received notice that Stanford University had granted him a four-year scholarship for his pre-med studies with the stipulation that he play on the prestigious Stanford tennis team. His family gushed with pride, so he thought there would never be a better time to come out. He mustered his courage and announced that he was having an affair with a Chinese man ten years older than himself.

  Connor gave him a warm hug, the first intimate gesture I’d seen between them since Spencer started dating Harman.

  “I’m so proud of you,” Connor said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

  A look of pure shock flashed on Roy Lin’s face. He seemed incredulous, livid. He didn’t say a word, but only because his jaw locked so tight that he couldn’t have spoken if he’d wanted to.

  Shar hugged Spencer. “You brave, sweet boy. What did your father say, actually?”

  “He demanded to know who I was seeing. He said something about ripping off his head and stuffing it up his stink hole. When I wouldn’t tell, he ordered me out of his house. He’s always been a hard-ass conservative. So I packed a bag and hitched a ride over to”—he paused and glanced in Roy’s direction—“you know who’s apartment. I thought we could live together, but he is not ready for that kind of commitment. We had a big fight. I guess it’s hard to come out when you’re that deep in the closet. I think he is also a little afraid of my father. I don’t blame him. Dad will put him in the hospital if he finds him. So now I don’t have parents, a boyfriend, or place to live.”

  Connor glanced at his father with his eyebrows arched in a silent question, but Roy’s expression made it obvious that Spencer was no longer welcome at his house either. Connor stepped closer to Shar, wrapped his arm around her waist, and drew her near, as if to show Roy that he was straight.

  “I say fuck him,” Spencer said, but his voice carried a tone of sadness instead of the anger that he must have intended. “I have my scholarship. I only need a place to live until the fall. This summer I’ll get a job to make some spending money.”

  Jared took Spencer into his arms, gave him a firm hug. “Put your suitcase in the guest bedroom. You’re staying with us for as long as you need.”

  It seems funny when I think back on those things that make me proud of Jared. Of course we would take Spencer in, no question. We couldn’t stand by and not help. But Jared handled the situation with no discussion, no hesitation. He reached out with compassion, which somehow made me feel grateful.

  Spencer’s puppy eyes peered at me. I grinned and nodded. He flew into my arms to hug me, and, feeling his tears dripping onto my neck, the kid-brother love I felt for him now seemed startlingly intimate.

  Chapter 13

  BEFORE we drove back to Indian Wells, I met Carrie Bennett in the Windsor Club dining room to explain that my conscience wouldn’t let me keep taking a salary and health benefits from the club. For the past several months, I had devoted myself to two players, which meant that I hadn’t performed the job they had hired me to do. And now that I would be touring, I wouldn’t be there at all. It wasn’t fair to the hundreds of members who needed coaching and were being left to fend for themselves. I told her if she wanted two weeks’ notice, it would have to wait until I got back from the Sony Ericsson tournament in Miami, which was two weeks away.

  She reached out and held my hand, telling me she didn’t need any notice and it would be best for me to make a clean break. She must have seen the fear in my eyes, because she winked and said, “You’ll do fine. As usual, you’re playing the percentage shot.”

  We strolled to my office, and she watched as I stuffed my belongings into a cardboard box. As I took down my six autographed pictures, I heard the paddle-bladed ceiling-fan wheeling above, announcing the passing seconds with each rotation.

  When I had everything packed, I garnered a last look at the tobacco-spit-colored walls and ambled to the veranda to gaze at my pristine fleet of green and white courts. Two courts were occupied by people I had taught how to hold a racket and play the game. I heard the wind flowing through the trees and the pop of the ball striking the strings, a soothing, familiar rush of sounds.

  Carrie gave me a prolonged hug and wished me well. I climbed the hill to the parking lot for the last time. Those familiar sounds grew faint, dissolving into silence. I jumped into Slug and drove home with a heavy foot.

  ON THE Saturday before the tournament began, we all trooped back to Indian Wells in Roy Lin’s van. This time, J.D. Lambert joined us. It rained all the way down Interstate 5, a gray and gloomy ride through the green squares of Central Valley cropland. At Bakersfield, to escape the rain, we turned due east and climbed over the mountains on Highway 58, which dropped us down onto the baked-brown plains of the Mojave. We cut due south for the last leg of the drive.

  The dry weather didn’t improve our mood. The draws had been published the day before, and Connor’s first match was against the second seed, Alec Gardener, the highest-ranked American player. It would take a miracle for Connor to beat him, so the glum certainty that Connor would go down in the first round hung over everybody except J.D. Lambert.

  Lambert crow
ed that Connor’s match would be on the stadium court and televised. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of viewers would watch him play. If he played well, the sponsors would take notice. A dream come true, by his reckoning. And if by some impossible stroke of fate Connor beat Gardener, we’d be in high cotton regardless of what else happened.

  I agreed that we were lucky, but for a different reason: if Connor gave Gardener a good fight, that would boost his self-confidence and catapult his game to a higher level.

  The tournament fell on the same week as Spencer’s spring break, so he tagged along without missing any school. This time, since each player was guaranteed a free room and a minimum two-thousand dollar paycheck, we all checked into the players’ hotel.

  As we drove past the Motel 6 on our way to the Hilton Village, Jared and I exchanged smiles; our slumming days were over. Roy Lin and J.D. Lambert shared a room, as did Connor and Shar, and Jared and I upgraded to a suite with two bedrooms, one for us and one for Spencer.

  We checked in just before midnight, and everyone went straight to bed. At seven the next morning, we stopped at John’s greasy spoon before hitting the practice courts. Both Jared and Connor ordered the huevos rancheros special. They gorged on eggs and rice and beans and tortillas, then made a grab for my toast to wipe their plates clean. I was happy to see them packing in the carbs, because I had planned a long and grueling practice session.

  We arrived early because both my players had to submit urine samples for drug testing. I ensured that the urine bottles went from my players into the hands of the independent testing agency to guarantee no shenanigans by the ATP. I planned to do this at every tournament. I was also prepared to hire a separate testing firm if I suspected any tampering.

  After the testing, we had an hour to kill before our practice court became available. Roy and J.D. wandered off in search of sponsors. The rest of us roamed around the grounds.