by Alan Chin
The tournament organizers were elated by the increased ticket sales, but I detected an edge in their smiles. They insisted that we perform our warm-up on the stadium court because there wasn’t enough room around the outer courts for the mob that had come to watch us work out; stadium tickets were twice the price of grounds passes for the outer courts. They packed into the upper-tier cheap seats, holding signs with glittering letters: “Poof the Magic Dragon” and “We Love You, Jared.”
The noise level intensified, and Jared had difficulty concentrating. He had flung open Pandora’s closet, and now he had to find a way to close the door.
Connor, on the other hand, was spurred on by the attention. It energized him. The gays became aware of their effect on him, and they grew louder, chanting his name. They adored him, and he sparkled under the glow of their adoration.
Jared played against Timothy McEwan, another hard-hitting American. Jared seemed nervous, like someone aware of being stared at but not knowing from where. The match became a display of power tennis. All too often, however, Jared was a step slow getting to the ball. As the match wore on, the gay fans’ encouraging shrieks grew thunderous, but it didn’t help. Jared fell in straight sets.
The crowd deflated. It was disappointing, because a third-round loss meant that Jared wouldn’t earn enough points for an entry into the singles draw of the Sony Ericsson tournament. His only chance now was in doubles. The good news was that his ranking improved nearly five hundred spots to number 220 in the world. If he continued with the same determination, he would move into the top one hundred in time for the U.S. Open in September.
He fast-talked through a brief interview where he praised McEwan’s high level of play. No sexual-orientation questions came up, although one reporter mentioned the huge number of vocal supporters pulling for Jared. It seemed that Diefenbach did indeed have influence over the media.
I intercepted Jared on his way to the locker room, telling him how well he played. It didn’t help, didn’t hurt either. I trailed him all the way to the showers, where he stood under a hot spray. Steam boiled around him as he labored through his disappointment. It was his first singles loss since his comeback. He stood there a long time. There was nothing to do but let him work it out internally.
I felt helpless. I was about to drag him out when he reached up and turned off the water. I threw him a towel. He dried and dressed. We dawdled back to watch Connor’s match.
By the time we reached our seats, Connor and his opponent, Nicolas Marakov from Russia, had finished their warm-up and were about to start. Connor bolted out of the blocks on fire. A stunned Marakov dropped the first set at love as Connor cracked numerous winners off both wings. He smacked the ball as hard as he could and with so much topspin that his shots kept dropping in. He was in his zone, whipping the fans into a frenzy.
During that first brief set, I noticed that the television cameraman across from us kept zeroing in on Shar and Roy between points, as if he were deliberately trying to show the television audience that Connor had a girlfriend. I had to smile.
In the second set, Connor’s confidence sailed over the moon. He attempted impossible shots. He made a handful of flashy winners, but he missed enough to let Marakov back in the match. Marakov won the second set, 6-4.
The third set produced several momentum shifts. Connor tried to control the points and revive his crumpled confidence. They both held serve until Connor broke Marakov at 5-5. Then Connor blasted four unreturnable serves in a row, winning the match.
He had fought his way through that last set with some shaky tennis—battling nerves and lost focus—and won by sheer determination. Jared raised his eyebrows and nodded, no doubt kicking himself for not doing the same thing.
We trooped to the pressroom. Again, Roy joined Connor at the interview desk and fielded most of the questions. He used an authoritative voice, giving the impression that he was Connor’s sole coach. No one mentioned the gay issue, but one reporter said, “Connor, ESPN conducted a poll today, and the fans voted you the sexiest male player at this tournament. Care to comment on that?”
Connor’s grin faded. Before he could respond, Roy cut in, “He’s eighteen, so I guess there must be an abundance of teenaged girls in the stadium, or a lot of pedophiles.” He glared in my direction as he said it. I glanced around; no, he was looking at me. I lifted a hand and wagged a finger—a warning not to push too far.
Roy’s comment raised a laugh from everyone except David Salinger, who stepped in to halt the interview before it progressed any further down that road.
When Connor emerged from the locker room, Roy threw a proud arm over his shoulder. As we ambled toward the cafeteria, I heard Connor say under his breath, “I wish you wouldn’t do that. You’re not my coach.”
Roy jerked to a halt and yanked his arm from Connor’s shoulder. The rest of us froze.
Connor stammered, “Besides, how many other players have their parents help them with the interviews?”
“Aii-ya,” Roy howled. “So now I’m an embarrassment?”
Connor dropped his head. “I didn’t say that. It’s just that you’re not my coach. What you’re doing is so obvious.”
“How many years have I sacrificed so you could become a star? How many hours did I spend drilling balls at you?” His voice cracked. “Now you win a few matches and you’re ashamed of me?”
“You’re putting words in my mouth. Look, just forget it, okay?”
“No. I want to know. What did you mean?”
Anger flashed in Connor’s eyes. I wanted to help, but he had to fight this battle himself.
“You’re using me!” Connor said. “If you want to be a big-time coach, then find somebody to coach instead of taking credit for Daniel’s work.”
Roy’s eyes squinted into slits. He gathered his dignity around him like a blanket and stomped off in the other direction.
“Dad,” Connor yelled after him. “Don’t be mad. I only meant….” But Roy had already charged out of hearing distance.
I patted Connor’s back. “You know,” I said, “he did a hell of a lot of work with you before I came along. Wouldn’t hurt to cut him some slack.”
CONNOR and Jared won their doubles match that afternoon. Roy joined us after the warm-up had begun. He had regained his usual humor and seemed to enjoy the match. They played on court three. The bleachers were packed with riotous fans. Their opponents were noticeably annoyed at having to play before such a boisterous crowd.
We arrived back at the Hilton around six thirty and found Uncle Harman waiting in the lobby. I assumed he had come to spend time with Spencer, whose eyes grew to twice their normal size while a grin creased his lips. They ogled each other until Roy yelled, “Surprise! Connor, meet our new manager. I hired him this morning, and he took the first flight down. He’ll manage our financial affairs, reservations, scheduling, transportation, whatever. He’ll even turn us into a corporation and handle all the money so that the government doesn’t steal it all in taxes. We’ll need that before we sign the Nike contract, and having him here will give me more time to help with your training.”
Everyone gawked at Roy until the silence grew awkward. Roy slapped Harman on the back. “Might as well keep it in the family. Have you checked in?”
“Tried to,” Harman said. “They’re full up because of the tournament. They suggested the Ramada Inn.”
“There’s an extra bed in my room.” Spencer’s voice trembled slightly.
The way Roy eyed Spencer, I could see the wheels turning in his head, weighing the cost of an additional motel room against having his brother share a room with a gay boy. My interest perked up to see which would win him over, money or morals.
“That’s fine with me,” Harman said, and he smiled.
“Good,” Roy snapped, closing the issue. “Saves ninety bucks a night. Let’s all meet down here in an hour. We’ll find a Chinese restaurant tonight.”
Jared said, “Roy, I need a long soak.” He winked at Spencer. “Maybe D
aniel and I should have dinner in our room.”
“I second that,” Shar said, also winking at Spencer. “Connor and I could use some alone time, right honey?”
Connor frowned but said, “Whatever.”
“Me too,” Spencer said. He and Harman peered at each until Harman nodded.
“Okay,” Roy said. “We’ll all stay in and go out tomorrow night.”
Jared and I strolled to the elevators. I could hear their footsteps right behind us.
Once we were alone, Jared grew moody. At first, I thought he might be envious of what must be going on in the next room, but I realized that he still agonized over his loss.
I found it interesting that following his loss, under the shower, his pain seemed sharp, and it was no problem. That kind of disappointment is natural. But once alone, I knew his mind was replaying the points he could have won but didn’t, like the four squandered breakpoints in the second set. Now his disappointment mutated into suffering, which gave birth to bitterness.
The foundation of Buddhism and the first of the four Noble Truths taught by the Buddha states that life is suffering. It is human to suffer, unavoidable, but I believe there is constructive suffering and destructive suffering. That immediate, sharp disappointment helps spur a player to train harder and perform better the next time, whereas lingering bitterness drags a player’s energy down and eats away at his confidence.
I ran a hot bath, and we crawled in together. I folded my arms around him. The heat relaxed me, but Jared stayed tight as a bowstring. I said, “You’re fighting something that can’t be undone.”
“You want me to forget what happened?”
“I want you to feel that disappointment. Feel every nuance of it, accept it, and let it go. Fighting against it keeps the pain alive. If you feel it instead of thinking about it, it burns itself out and you can move on.”
He murmured, “First you teach me how to win, now you tell me how to lose.”
“No, honey. I’m reminding you not to let your mind spin out of control. That’s what we do on court in order to play our best.”
He kissed me, and I could feel his body relaxing into mine.
“I love you,” he said. “Hand me the shampoo. I’ll wash your hair.”
I knew he’d be fine for tomorrow’s match. While he scrubbed my scalp, I wondered how Connor would react to his first loss in a major tournament.
THE next four days were a blur. We stuck to a daily routine of a brisk workout, tai chi, breakfast, an hour on the practice courts with hundreds of adoring fans in attendance. Connor would play his singles match, and after lunch they would play doubles. They kept winning.
Connor experienced another breakthrough, the kind that coaches and players dream about but seldom see. With every win, Connor became more confident, more determined. He wanted to take on everyone at once. He couldn’t wait for his next match to see what new level he could push his game to. With each new match, the players were better, the matches tougher, and both Connor and Jared answered the challenge.
Connor attained respect in the locker room. Players and media people began calling him “The Magic Dragon,” because of his trademark embroidered shirt, which he wore at every match. The homophobes called him “Poof,” but even they said it with a somewhat respectful tone.
Most of Connor’s matches were drawn-out battles. We all rode the crest of a wave, and everyone stayed in a constant state of wonder.
Everyone, that is, except Spencer and Harman. As it turned out, even though they shared a bedroom, they didn’t share the same bed. Harman’s fear of forming a committed relationship continued to be an obstacle, so they followed the rest of us around looking like sick puppies.
I often became angry at their situation, and I had to keep reminding myself that it would only last a few days. Soon, Spencer would drive back to San Francisco for school and Harman would fly with us to Florida for the Sony Ericsson tournament—end of story as far as they were concerned.
Harman blossomed into the role of manager. He took charge of planning everything: picking up and delivering laundry, making dinner reservations, arranging for ATP cars, chauffeuring us around, paying all the bills, and making the travel and hotel arrangements for the Sony Ericsson. He became indispensable.
Spencer used Harman’s laptop to create two web sites, one for Connor and one for Jared, where fans could see their pictures, uploaded from Roy’s digital camera, and check on the latest scores and stats. By the end of the week, both sites were getting fifteen thousand hits a day.
He also set up two separate email addresses where people could email us. He spent four hours each evening managing the influx of email. Most of it came from gay men cheering us on, but Spencer showed me several examples of hate mail that he received on a daily basis. One showed a picture of a man wearing a wig and makeup. His throat had been cut, and he lay in a pool of his own blood. The caption at the bottom read: Welcome to Florida!
Over Spencer’s protests, I decided not to show those emails to the others. There was no reason to upset Connor and Jared when they needed to perform at their peak, and why give Roy any more ammunition than he already had?
Harman’s efforts freed up all of Roy’s time. Now he attended every practice session, but luckily, he never tried to influence my work. He sat at the sidelines—watching, listening, studying—with the concentration of a tiger stalking its prey. He also accompanied me when I scrutinized Connor’s upcoming opponents. We discussed the strengths and weaknesses of each player and formulated a game plan together.
On Saturday morning, Connor played a spectacular semifinal match, beating Germany’s Thomas Schindler in a three-setter. The press pounced on Connor after the match. Not only had he beaten a veteran player ranked number sixteen on the ATP tour rankings, but he was also the first ever qualifier to reach this tournament’s final.
Connor enchanted them and handled every question. Roy no longer joined him at the interviews. Watching Connor alone in front of the camera, lustrous with charm, I could only hope that he would handle the media as well after losing a match. But at that moment, losing was the furthermost thing from his mind.
That afternoon, the Australian player, Joshua McEwan, pulverized David Madison to become the other finalist. In the post-match interview, a reporter asked McEwan if he was pleased to be playing a qualifier in the final. McEwan, known for sharing his unvarnished opinions of other players, said some unsavory things about “having to share the locker room with poofs” and “playing against the star fairy.” He boasted that he would thrash Connor in pretty quick order.
Only a few players were vocal about their aversion for us, but McEwan’s remarks established him as the macho defender of heterosexual sports, and the press egged him on.
SUNDAY gave us a cloudless sky and air as crystal clear as only the desert air can be. It grew hot, like true summer, and the gay fans came out in force. I counted no fewer than twelve men in tennis drag. There were, of course, an equal number of old guard straight tennis fans there to cheer McEwan on. This match had all the trappings of Billie Jean King’s Battle of the Sexes, but this time, to my amusement, it was two straight men playing each other.
When Connor followed McEwan onto stadium court, a lump wedged in my throat. In place of his blue shirt with the embroidered dragon was a black silk muscle shirt with a sequined red dragon blazing on the back. The dragon’s eyes sparkled a piercing yellow, and the whole image shimmered with life as he moved.
Shar leaned toward me to say, “Some Hollywood clothing designer named Soochow made that. He dropped it by the hotel last night, and Con fell in love with it.”
“Hollywood, my ass,” I said. “It’s pure Las Vegas.”
I felt a little stab thinking that Connor’s grandmother would be watching on television. How would she feel seeing him play without the shirt she had made? Roy’s thoughts must have mirrored my own, because he became visibly agitated. A few minutes later, he recovered himself and lifted his camera, snapping
the first pictures of the day.
A party-like atmosphere infused the crowd. During the five-minute warm-up, several exchanges between the gays and the old guard fans put everyone on edge. The air crackled with tension.
Connor served first, playing our strategy to perfection. McEwan loved to run side to side. He played the angles better than anyone. Hit a ball out wide and he would respond with a more drastic crosscourt angle, pulling his opponent off the court so that his next shot was a winner into the open court. But Connor blasted all his balls right down the middle with enough pace that McEwan couldn’t generate the kind of angles that allowed him to control the point. They kept pounding balls right at each other until someone made an error, and that was usually McEwan. Our plan had nullified McEwan’s strengths.
Both players held serve until McEwan served to stay in the first set at 4-5. Connor stepped up his aggression and broke him, winning the first set with a down-the-line backhand. The crowd erupted. The gays cheered Connor, and the straights booed McEwan.
McEwan was stunned. Spectators had booed him plenty of times, but never half the crowd. He had lost a set to someone suspected of being gay, and that must have felt like a very public castration.
But the match was far from over, and McEwan knew it. At the changeover, I saw the anger boiling in his eyes. He became very calm as the wheels turned. He was determining what he needed to change to make Connor play to his advantage.
Seeing that calm deliberation come over McEwan’s face, I began to worry. Connor had played magnificently, but this was his first singles final in a tier one event. Those butterflies in his stomach would mutate into dive-bombers when he got into the homestretch. My palms poured sweat. I kept wringing a towel to keep them dry. Roy kept popping Tums and crunching so loud that I found it more irritating than his clicking camera.
As the second set began, McEwan’s plan became clear. He aimed for the sidelines no matter what came to him. It worked. He lured Connor into crosscourt rallies, using his speed and angles to control Connor.