Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  It had always amazed me that this place had once been barren desert. Lush green lawns and manicured flowerbeds surrounded the stadium and the twelve outer courts. Bordering the complex were miles of tract homes sprawling over the hazy plain, and beyond them stood the rugged, wind-sharpened mountains. They rose and rose to meet the sky like towering fortress walls, pale gold and sunburned red in the morning light. The thin air felt dry, and the temperature soared into the eighties, causing waves of heat to radiate off the tract home rooftops.

  I couldn’t contain my excitement at playing a tier-one tournament again: mingling with the elite players, comparing notes with other coaches, hobnobbing with the magnates who organize professional tennis. I was overwhelmed.

  Jared glowed like the desert sun. He had that old swagger in his step, and no matter what happened, no matter how ugly it got, it was worth all the months of work just to see him like that again.

  As we strutted toward our practice court, Jared draped an arm over my shoulder and pulled me close. I was too surprised to pull away. Besides, I welcomed the affection. Connor did the same with Shar.

  We strolled in silence, each person wrestling with those stomach butterflies that were as big as elephants. We passed other courts where the stars, coaches, and wannabes all argued about strategy and stroke techniques in a dozen different languages. We stopped to exchange pleasantries with a few coaches and players who welcomed us back in the game. This is it, I thought, what we had dreamed about. We were all afraid to say anything that might diminish the experience.

  We stripped off our warm-ups and performed tai chi. Most players stretch their muscles to warm up, but I wanted to slow them down, to have them breathing right, quieting their minds and expanding their chi.

  Roy and J.D. came scurrying toward our court towing two men whom J.D. introduced as John Sikes and Louis Wang, marketing representatives from Nike who were interested in seeing Connor work out. Roy sported a wide, toothy smile and dollar signs in his eyes. As we took to the court, Roy told them in a loud voice how he had trained Connor to get him to this point and that now he supervised all Connor’s practice sessions. Shar jumped in to describe Connor’s diet and workout program.

  Connor shot me an embarrassed, sideways glance, but I smiled and tuned everything out. I focused on the boys warming up like we’d done a hundred times before: slow, steady, controlled strokes until a sheen of sweat glistened across our foreheads. I nodded at their solid follow-through, and I paid particular attention to their faces to ensure they were in that Mushin mind-space of controlled emptiness.

  After the warm-up, we focused on the business of preparing Connor for his match with Alec Gardener. Alec possessed the fastest serve in tennis and a powerful forehand that could smack winners from anywhere on the court, but Connor had a superior backhand, return of serve, and better movement.

  Connor’s first key to the match was attacking Alec’s backhand, forcing Gardener into a backhand-to-backhand rally, waiting for a short ball to drill down the line or come to the net for a put-away volley. We practiced that strategy again and again.

  The second key was holding serve. Connor would get precious few chances to break Gardener’s serve, so it was imperative that he always hold his own serve. He didn’t possess a powerful serve, so he had to compensate by using variety and pinpoint accuracy. We spent half an hour on serves: hard and flat down the centerline, spinning into the body, kickers out wide, serve and volley.

  The last key was returning Gardener’s humongous serve. Connor needed to bunt enough big bombs back in play to frustrate Gardener. Gardener always expected to win a heap of cheap points on his serve, and he got frustrated with anyone who made him play long rallies. If Connor could return several missile serves early on, Alec could begin going for too much on his first serve, giving Connor a look at a lot of weaker second serves. We practiced returning serves with Jared standing halfway to the net drilling balls at Connor. He stood closer to give Connor less time to react, simulating the 150 mile-per-hour Gardener rockets.

  To my surprise, Connor bunted a dozen of those serves back into play, which raised my hopes the width of an eyelash.

  During our first rest period, our shirts came off, and we downed quarts of water. The air had turned hot, and the intense workout had us all smiling.

  A crowd of twenty spectators gathered at courtside to watch four shirtless, sweat-soaked men play tennis. Some even took pictures. A few coaches and players were sprinkled among the fans, sizing us up. They affected Connor. The fact that pros were watching had him showboating.

  I assumed his concentration would lapse, but they had the opposite effect. Intent on impressing them, he honed his focus so that his performance surprised even me. I glanced over at John Sikes, and I saw that he was even more impressed than I was.

  When we called it quits, Jared ambled over and hugged me. He radiated happiness. He hugged Connor as well and wished him luck.

  John Sikes, who had stayed to watch the entire workout, shook his head and said, “I come from Nebraska, and back there men shake hands. They wouldn’t know what to make of men hugging each other.” He chuckled and glanced at Roy.

  “Says a lot about Nebraska,” Jared said.

  A few spectators gave off a nervous, sniggering kind of laugh.

  “Well, hell, what’s next,” Sikes said, “players kissing?”

  “Let’s give it a try and see,” Jared said. He seized the back of my neck and drew me to him, kissing me on the mouth. The move surprised me so much it took me a moment to pull away.

  The crowd fell silent. John Sikes’s and Roy Lin’s faces turned to stone. Sikes walked away. I gave Jared a cold stare and shook my head.

  “Hell,” Jared said, “I want everyone to know. Don’t you?”

  “What’s the point of broadcasting it?” I made no attempt to hide my anger.

  “The first time,” Jared said, “everything happened behind closet doors. That’s how they beat us, by keeping us afraid and in hiding. This time we’ll flaunt it. They’ll probably still beat us, but at least everyone will know why.”

  Spencer slid up beside me and wrapped an arm around my waist, squeezing affectionately. His gentleness soothed me somewhat. Since moving in with us, he’d become more intimate, altering the dynamics of our household from couple to family. He never strayed far, like a puppy craving its mother’s warmth. “Jared’s right,” he whispered. “People should know.”

  “You wacko bastard!” J.D. hissed through clenched teeth. “You just blew a two-million-dollar deal. You want to fuck your career, be my guest. But you have no right to pull Connor down with you.”

  Roy’s face grew ashen, as if he needed a blood transfusion. I told him he had better sit down before he fell down, but he ignored my suggestion and pointed a stubby finger in my face.

  “What’s been going on behind my back?” His eyes squinted to slits, darting from me, to Spencer, to Jared, back to me.

  Spencer nuzzled closer, as if to protect me. Connor held his eyes with a steely stare.

  “Just what are you asking, Mr. Lin?” I said. It took every iota of self-control I possessed to steady my voice.

  “If you’ve seduced my son, I’ll, I’ll….”

  “Chill, dad,” Connor interrupted. “Nobody seduced anybody.”

  “Mr. Lin, we haven’t done anything improper,” I said, glancing at Shar. She looked away, unable to hold my eye.

  “Nothing improper? You just cost me two million bucks. I’ll sue you!”

  “Sue me because a Nike representative is homophobic? Good luck!”

  “You’re fired. I won’t have my son associating with a pack of queers. And that goes for you too,” he said, shaking a finger at Spencer. “You stay the hell away from Connor.”

  “Who the fuck needs you?” Jared sneered. “You’re the one who came begging for help, not us. We can make it on our own.”

  I whirled around to face Jared. “Hit the showers. You’ve done quite enough for one day.�
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  A huge smile split his face in two. He snatched his tennis bag and gave me a peck on the cheek before strutting off toward the showers with Spencer in tow. Before they walked a dozen steps, they were surrounded by fans who had watched the workout. Jared signed a few autographs and chatted with the fans.

  The spectators drifted away in twos and threes, and the warm desert air was peppered with their ringing laughter. My legs felt weak. I glanced around our circle and at Jared and Spencer shuffling off. These six people with opposing views had been brought together for one purpose, and I realized that to achieve that purpose, my role must be to bridge the chasm that separated each one of us from the others. I am the bridge, I thought, although at that moment I felt more like the chasm. The experiences and achievements that I assumed defined me were lost in the past, and it seemed as though I was treading over an ice field of continually changing shapes, my personal March Of The Penguins. And it felt like very thin ice indeed.

  Connor, who stood beside Shar with his eyebrows lifted, chimed in, “Dad, nobody’s firing anybody. It’s none of our business what they do in their bedroom.”

  “You’re wrong,” J.D. hissed. “Everybody on tour will make it their business whether you like it or not. And they’ll assume that you’re one of them. They travel in packs.”

  His “packs” slur stuck in my craw, but he was right about one thing: pro tennis is made up of three or four hundred people all migrating from one event to the next, like a nomadic tribe following the herd, and there are no secrets in a tribe. Sneeze at breakfast, and everybody says “Gesundheit” by lunch.

  Shar spoke for the first time. “We’ll show them that it’s not true,” and she put her arm around Connor’s waist and drew him closer. I smiled at her as a way of saying thank you, and she winked at me, a long, slow whiplash of her eyelid. I read a lot into that wink. I read that she and I were becoming friends again. There is nothing like a common enemy to bring people together, and she had despised Roy from day one.

  “You can’t be serious,” Roy screamed. “They’ll ruin us. Even they know that. That’s why they kept it secret.”

  “Dad, they haven’t kept anything secret. Daniel told me the first day. Everybody knew except you. Even Mr. Lambert knew.”

  Roy became stock-still and stone-cold silent. Finally, his lips began to twitch, as if he were holding back something he wanted to shout. His breathing grew loud. Before he could voice whatever was on the tip of his tongue, Connor said, “Jared is right. If we don’t hide anything, it will blow over. I’m willing to take that chance, so please, Dad, I’m asking you to deal with it.”

  “You will do as I say. I’m your father, and I know what’s best.”

  “And I’m the one who steps onto that court and jumps through hoops, and I’m telling you I can’t do it without them. I wouldn’t even want to try.” Connor’s voice went soft. “Please, Dad, it’s not cool to make me beg like a dog.”

  “We’ll find a better coach.”

  “I don’t want better. I like them.”

  J.D. grabbed Roy’s arm. “Listen, Roy, we don’t have to decide now. Let’s go find the Nike people. Maybe we can patch this up. Those bastards are so greedy for new talent they’d peddle their own grandmothers on the white-slave market if it would sell their damned shoes.”

  Roy glared at me. His face seemed to droop around his eyes, giving the impression of intense sadness. The steam ran out of him like a punctured pressure cooker. He said, “Have you ever thought about seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “I’m happy with my husband. If you have a problem with it, Roy, perhaps you should seek professional help.”

  With a visible surrender, he allowed J.D. to lead him off toward the Nike exhibit booth.

  As they walked away, Shar gave Connor a warm hug.

  “That took guts, darling. I’m proud of you, and Jared is my hero. But there’s only so far you can push before they push back, and I’m not talking about Roy and J.D.!” She leaned my way and hugged me. “All in all, that went better than I expected. Don’t you think?”

  “At least you and I are talking again,” I said. “Sorry I’ve been such a shit.”

  “You were right, about the over-training and about my professionalism. That’s why I got so damned mad. How about I buy you a cup of tea while this stud hits the showers?” She patted Connor’s butt. Connor grabbed his tennis bag. As he headed for the locker room, she called after him, “No horsing around in the shower, and don’t bend over to pick up the soap.”

  Chapter 14

  JARED, Spencer and I had a quiet dinner at the hotel and hit the sack early. The others ate at John’s greasy spoon. I know Roy and J.D. were pressuring Connor to fire me. I hated causing a rift between father and son, but I didn’t want to lose Connor. There was so much more I could teach him. I knew I could help him achieve his dreams, but I felt my chances slipping away.

  That night in bed, with Spencer asleep in the next room, Jared propped himself on his elbow with his body stretched out against mine. I felt his warmth all the way down to my soles. He ran a hand down my flank, and I shivered. I wondered if he was trying to get me in the mood or just comfort me.

  “What’s bothering you?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “We have another chance here,” he said. “So let’s do it right this time. If we make it, we make it. If we don’t, we go down swinging. Somebody’s got to be the sacrificial lambs if this sport is ever going to change.”

  “I don’t want to hurt Connor’s chances. He has what it takes, I’m sure of it.”

  “He’s smart enough to make his own decisions. If things get too rough, he’ll know when to back away.”

  I cuddled into that hollow space between his arms and fell in sync with his breathing before drifting off to sleep.

  I woke in the night to find that we were not alone. Jared pressed against me and slept peacefully. Spencer had slipped into the other side of our bed and was snuggled up to Jared. It had the feel of a little boy slipping into bed with his parents on a stormy night. Deciding not to make a scene, I drifted back to sleep.

  The next morning, Spencer was still in our bed, but he’d somehow wormed his way between us. He nuzzled against me while Jared nuzzled against him. Waking, I felt his warmth and his soft, boy-sweet breath on my face. He lay wide-awake, and when I opened my eyes, he kissed me while his hands caressed my morning woody. His lips pulled me into full consciousness, and my warning buzzer went off. I jerked back and shook my head, even though my entire body sizzled at the possibilities of sharing this beautiful boy with Jared.

  “Go back to your room, now,” I whispered.

  “I’m so lonely,” he said, trying to kiss me again.

  I pressed my fingers to his lips with one hand and pointed to the door with the other. Without another protest, he crawled over me, getting out of bed, and left the room. I snuggled into that space between Jared’s arms and tried to drift back to sleep, but my mind, caught in a vise between desire and fear, refused to calm. Thirty excruciating minutes passed before Jared woke and we started our day.

  We showered, had breakfast at John’s, and made a beeline to the courts. I didn’t think Connor would be there, but when we arrived at the site, he, Shar, and Roy were waiting for us. Roy and I fell into an uncomfortable truce, at least for the time being. How long it would last was anybody’s guess.

  We had a forty-five minute warm-up on the stadium court before settling into our seats in the players’ section to watch the first match up. Roy fiddled with a new top-of-the-line Canon digital camera. He planned to immortalize all of Connor’s matches in snapshots. He opened a little notebook of directions on how to focus, zoom, store and retrieve pictures, but he chose to ignore the instructions and bumble his way through it.

  A few minutes later, Gardener strutted onto the court with Connor on his heels. Gardener wore all white. He exuded confidence, acting as if the court was his living room and Connor an unwelcome guest.


  Connor sported a powder blue collared shirt and white shorts. Embroidered on the back of his shirt was a red and yellow Chinese dragon, for courage and luck. I hadn’t seen it before, and I wondered if Grandmother Lin had made it. He needs both luck and courage, I thought. Judging from the expression on his face, it looked like he was preparing for a root canal instead of a tennis match.

  The chair umpire waved them over, and Connor won the coin toss, electing to serve. As the players warmed up, an announcer introduced them over the P.A. system. A cheer soared for Gardener, then polite, sympathetic clapping for Connor. The clicking of Roy’s new camera had already become irritating. I began to hope that he would soon run out of memory.

  The fans were eager. The stadium echoed with the sounds of phlegmy coughs and squeaking seats from people adjusting their sitting positions. Roy sat on my left under a broad-brimmed hat, crunching on Tums and clicking away. Shar sat to my right, the others one row behind us.

  Roy wore a purple warm-up suit with red stripes running down both sides, even though the temperature had already topped ninety. Stuffed into one of his pants pockets was a massive white handkerchief. Now and again he ripped it from his pocket and swept it across his forehead with a flourish.

  I knew Gardener would dominate the match with his blistering serve and powerful forehand groundstrokes, so as they warmed up, I calculated Connor’s chance of winning at roughly zero, nada, nil. Still, my hands trembled. I hoped that he would put in a good fight, winning two or perhaps three games each set.

  The stadium had a party-like atmosphere. American tennis fans idolized Gardener, and they were anxious to see him crush this unknown qualifier.

  Connor won a nervous-looking first-service game. My hopes raised an iota.

  For the first point on his own serve, Gardener stepped to the baseline and blasted a 143 mile-per-hour ace up the centerline. The crowd roared.

  The first seven games flew by with Gardener seemingly winning every point, breaking Connor twice for a 5-2 lead. Gardener cruised in his service games, and Connor hadn’t gotten a sniff at a break point. Connor played passively, seemed emotionless. He stayed relaxed and kept his Mushin mentality, but he needed to light a fire in his belly and play with controlled aggression.