by Alan Chin
I lost heart and grew angry at Connor for not sticking to our game plan, a plan that had worked. But as the set drew on, I realized that Connor was holding his own playing to McEwan’s advantage. In the fourth game, Connor began creating the angles before McEwan could, luring the Australian into a crosscourt exchange and drilling the ball down the line before McEwan could. He out-McEwan-ed McEwan.
Once Connor established his dominance playing the angles, he won every game after that, winning the championship 6-4, 6-2.
This is it, I thought. This tournament took his ranking from number 714 to 77, enough to get him into the Sony Ericsson. Assuming he continued to play well, he would never have to play the challenger circuit again, never have to fight his way into the main draw, never be the unknown that nobody had heard of. This win catapulted him into prime time. It established his credentials as an elite player and placed him on a pedestal with one hundred other athletes.
I was so dazed that I didn’t hear the fans screaming their lungs out. But I did hear Roy Lin as he leaned close to my ear and yelled, “You say in another year he’ll be a top player? I say, fuck you! He’s there now.”
I nodded my head even though I still wasn’t convinced. I thought about the difference between arrival and establishing yourself. Arrival is an immediate physical event: a plane touches down, a train pulls into a station, you step from a bus, you walk down a street or two, take pictures, see the sites, have lunch, and over coffee, wonder what’s happening back home.
Establishing yourself takes time; you get to know where the locals eat, where the best jazz clubs are, where to get your shirts pressed. Then, one day, you stop thinking of home as being somewhere else. Had Connor arrived? Perhaps. But there was plenty of work in front of us.
I gave Jared and Shar and Spencer big, joyous hugs. I would have given J.D. Lambert a hug had he not raced off to find the Nike representatives.
Ten minutes later, during the trophy ceremony, my heart still pounded like a jackhammer. David Salinger interviewed Connor. He asked, “There was some trash-talk before this match. How good does it feel to win after hearing that?”
“You didn’t hear any trash-talk from me,” Connor said. “I was too overjoyed to be playing at this point in the tournament. Besides, when it comes to tennis, I let my racket do the talking. But I will say that winning this awesome tournament is the most thrilling thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve played some hard-fought matches this week, and I hope that my winning so easily today didn’t disappoint the fans.”
McEwan reddened. He stayed that way as Connor went on to thank the organizers, the sponsors, and the ball kids. He thanked fans who had cheered him on. He was delighted with himself, and I think that little covert dig at McEwan was the cherry on the cake.
In a sport where most athletes stammered out the same boring clichés, Connor gave a fresh, articulate interview. At the end, he waved to the crowd and shouted, “I love you all!” The organizers and the press returned his affection. The gay men leaped to their feet, screaming and waving their arms.
The crowd had thirty minutes to rest their vocal cords while workers prepared the court for the doubles final. Jared and Connor appeared on court leading their opponents, the Richardson brothers from Southern California. A lump wedged in my throat from the first ball hit in the warm-up until Jared won match point with a down-the-line smash that landed an inch inside the baseline.
The cheers could be heard on Jupiter. I’d never seen a crowd go that wild at a tennis event. As everyone else bounded to their feet, I put my head between my knees and tried to hold back the tears.
That exquisite, spine-tingling moment became something Jared and I would both take to our graves. No matter what else happened, we would own that Masters title, and at that moment, it was worth every heartache along the way and to come.
Jared climbed into the stands and took me in his arms. ESPN broadcasted every intimate moment of our championship hug and kiss. The fans went Times-Square-at-New-Year’s ballistic.
WE WERE invited to a gay party that night by one of the tournament board of directors who was secretly gay. Roy and J.D. dined with the Nike people, and they planned to have an after dinner nightcap with the Adidas representative, so we didn’t see them for the rest of the night. Spencer and Harman elected to have dinner in their hotel room—no big surprise. So Connor, Jared, Shar, and I trooped off in Roy’s van to dine at a gay-friendly restaurant in Palm Springs for some elegant French food.
The gay waiters fawned over us. We felt shocked to find ourselves the center of attention even off the court.
After dinner, we drove to the party, which took place at a villa on a rise overlooking Palm Desert. The expansive patio had hundreds of gay men milling about a cobalt pool. Many of them were well-to-do seniors with younger men at their sides. Several men wore military uniforms. I counted three Naval officers, an army Colonel, and a marine sergeant. A dozen men played volleyball in the pool.
A five-piece band of musicians, whose taste ran in the direction of twangy Hawaiian jazz, pounded out tunes. They were shirtless and wore coconut shell brassieres, grass skirts, flower leis, and leafy headdresses. The drummer had a huge round belly and flaccid arms and was covered with tattoos. He wore a hat piled high with fruit a la Carmen Miranda.
The whole place seemed to detonate when we arrived. We elbowed our way through a mob while being hugged, kissed, squeezed, and groped. The entire party lionized us three men. Poor Shar was ignored. In their eyes, young and old alike, we were sex gods.
As we mingled, Jared kept staring at me with an astonished grin. A number of men made passes at Connor even though Shar stayed glued to him. He was not interested in them sexually, but he didn’t shy away from them either. He was the star of the show, and he played the part beautifully. He even led them on, toying with those hopeful men to see how far they would go.
I shone my attention on the older couples. One couple became prominent: balding men who appeared never to have lost their baby fat. Their bodies squeezed into matching Hawaiian shirts, pressed slacks, and sandals. With their round, pale faces, they each resembled a miniature man on the moon. They were very dignified, however, and fit comfortably around one another—that relaxed intimacy that comes from being together for decades.
“Hello, handsome,” one of them greeted me. “I’m Fred and this is Jim, but our friends call us Fred and Ethel.”
“Waiter, our gorgeous friend needs a drink, if you please,” they both said at the same time.
A martini glass slipped into my fingers and, with a hand on each of my arms, they escorted me around the grounds. As it turned out, they were our hosts. They took possession of me, dangling me in front of their other guests like a new diamond bracelet. In their older, somewhat frumpy way, they were cool—and obviously still in love. I found myself looking forward to the time when Jared and I would enjoy their kind of intimacy, hardly needing to speak because we shared the same thoughts.
The crowd devoured Connor and Jared. Fred, Ethel and I made a pass at the buffet table. We migrated from one couple to another, meeting people and chatting easily. As soon as I’d take two sips of my martini, one or the other would snatch it from my hand, and a fresh one would replace it. It was dream-like, being the center of everybody’s radar. But I had the feeling that something was wrong, that we didn’t deserve their adoration. At the same time, I felt it had been a long time coming, and I kept telling myself to enjoy it.
At the stroke of ten, to Fred and Ethel’s vast disappointment, I gathered my chicks and herded them back to the van. They all groaned, but I reminded them that we had an early flight and they had to be ready to play a first-round match on Tuesday. We basked in a boozy glow on the ride to the hotel. When Jared and I arrived at our room, Spencer and Harman’s bedroom lights were already out.
The following morning, the Palm Springs newspaper hit the newsstands. We bought a copy at the airport. They ran a photo of Connor on page one with a quote from David Salin
ger touting Connor as the next American hope, a prodigy, and the first Chinese-American since Michael Chang to have a shot at the number one ranking.
I was hopeful as we flew to the Sony Ericsson tournament, the toughest draw outside the four Grand Slams. We were all anxious to show what we could do. We had fought our way into the big dance. We had arrived—I had arrived—and nothing could stop us now.
Chapter 17
SPENCER dropped us at the airport, pointed the nose of Roy’s van west, and drove back to San Francisco. We flew east as the sun rose above the curve of the earth. A van met us at the Miami airport and sped us to the hotel, where we spent a quiet day recovering from the flight.
The next morning, the same van sped us to the tennis facility for our first round matches. Arriving at the stadium, we were pitched into bewilderment. Hundreds of protesters held signs and chanted while marching in two large circles in front of the main gates. One circle displayed anti-gay signs: “God Hates Fags” and “Keep Our Sport for Real Men.” The other had pro-gay signs: “Gay Tennis Rocks” and “We Love Connor and Jared.” Police were on hand to keep a lid on the hostilities, but as we passed on our way to the player’s entrance, I heard the two groups hurling insults at each other.
“This is insane,” I mumbled to no one in particular. The day was windy, and I noticed that the protesters were having trouble keeping their signs held high. I looked up. The flags rising above the front gates were snapping toward the west. My mind turned to thoughts of what the wind would do to my players that afternoon.
Armed security guards ushered our van through the players’ entrance and escorted us through a mob of protesters milling inside the grounds. An egg smashed against my door window. There were shouts. Eggs, tomatoes, and even rocks pelted our van. Security guards surrounded us as we crawled toward the players’ lounge.
Security pushed the mob back thirty yards. Violence hung in the air. I looked up to see Karl Diefenbach standing beside a red-faced Dan Pope, the tournament director.
“You’re to blame,” Diefenbach hissed as I stepped from the van.
“Me? I had nothing to do with this,” I said.
“You had to do it, didn’t you? You had to kiss each other on nationally televised ES-fucking-PN. We had a deal.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And we’re sticking to that deal. We haven’t mentioned being gay.”
Dan Pope spoke up. “How the hell am I supposed to run a tournament with this mob running wild? This isn’t California. Things are different down here. We take our Bible to heart.”
“If that were true,” I said, “there wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I can’t let you play,” Pope said, “because I can’t protect you from these fanatics.”
Roy looked ready to explode. “Are you searching bags and making everybody go through a metal detector?”
“Of course,” Pope snapped. “That’s standard procedure, but it’s no guarantee.”
Roy pointed a finger in Pope’s face. “We earned the right to play this tournament, and it’s your responsibility to insure that every player, including my son, gets adequate protection.”
Pope held up his hands. “That’s what I intend to do: protect you. And that means I don’t expose you to thousands of hostile fans.”
I looked around the grounds, at the straights and the gays holding signs and jeering at each other. I shook my head. “Mr. Pope, Mr. Diefenbach, you have to let us play. At least half these protesters are gay. If you rob them of the chance to watch us, they’ll tear the place apart.”
“Just what the hell do you suggest I do?” Pope almost screamed.
“Gentlemen,” I said. “My boys are exhausted and jet-lagged. Chances are they’ll go out in the first round. This problem might solve itself by the end of the day if you let us play.”
“You don’t understand, Daniel,” Diefenbach said. “We’ve had a number of death threats. The people down here are pretty simple. They see something they don’t like, they get rid of it. It’s too great a risk.”
I glanced at Jared as my stomach tightened into a knot. He seemed shell-shocked, but I saw a glint of defiance in his eyes. The vision of that email, the drag queen with his throat cut, flashed into my mind. I wanted to back away, but I could feel Jared’s resistance gelling. He would insist I was being paranoid, and I admit I was afraid. Relax, I told myself. Think clearly.
“We either play,” Jared spoke for the first time, “or I walk over to that camera crew and spill my guts. From the looks of things, that’s what this powder keg needs to ignite.”
The blood drained from Pope’s face. Diefenbach held up his hands. “Now, now, boys, let’s not fly off the handle and do something we’ll all regret.”
Jared began to walk toward the camera crew. Diefenbach grabbed his shoulder and shouted, “Wait!”
“Dan,” Diefenbach said to Pope. “Have security cordon off practice court sixteen and let these men do a warm-up. We’ll move their matches to the earliest possible start times, put them on the stadium court, and ring the court with officers. It’ll be a zoo, so we’ll need extra security. Can you handle that?”
“I’ll do my best, Karl.”
Diefenbach turned to me and Roy. “I suggest that you not stay at the players’ hotel. We should find you a low-key motel close to the airport and check you in under assumed names. If that’s agreeable, I’ll make the arrangements while you warm up.”
Harman stepped forward. “No need to trouble yourself, Mr. Diefenbach. I’ll find a quiet place and check us in.”
“Excellent,” Diefenbach said. “And I’m assigning you two bodyguards while you’re here at the facilities.” He waved a hand at two men who both stood over six feet, two inches tall and sported bellies hanging over their gun belts. They sauntered over with a swagger that seemed stylized from John Wayne westerns.
Diefenbach turned to me. “I’m already regretting this decision. Let me warn you, any display of affection, on camera or off, and I will escort you from these facilities and bar you from ever playing again. Understood?”
THE sun had climbed halfway to its zenith by the time we began our warm-up. The hot and humid air seemed to smother us, but nobody noticed. We were dazed, but the warm-up routine focused us on the task at hand. The pop of the ball made a soothing sound, and soon we were running, sweating, and able to achieve the Mushin mind-space.
Connor’s first round opponent was Prong Ananda, an eighteen-year-old qualifier from Thailand. Ananda was a hard-hitting, all-out competitor who loved to smash winners. In our workout, we focused on using Ananda’s pace against him. The key would be to make Ananda hit a lot of balls. With his all-out style, he’d make a ton of errors if he were forced to hit several balls on every point. So we worked on that; Jared smashed balls and Connor looped them back, over and over.
The fans were kept well away from court sixteen, but we heard their chanting. After a forty-five-minute workout, I felt better; however, I prayed for easy first rounds, because my boys were a bit sluggish during the warm-up. I could only hope that the adrenaline rush of competing would energize them. I even felt better about the crowd. By tomorrow, I thought, everything will settle down, and we’ll be yesterday’s news.
We had barely enough time to eat before Connor’s singles match, so we packed our gear and hurried toward the players’ cafeteria, led by our two armed guards.
I could tell that Jared was looking forward to playing his doubles match. Their opponents were lower-ranked players that my boys could beat as long as they stuck to our game plan. I stayed as close to him as possible as we walked, hoping to soak up some of his enthusiasm.
We were fifty yards from the cafeteria doors when someone in the nearby crowd shouted our names. Thirty or forty people ran toward us. Some had TV cameras perched on their shoulders. They were intercepted by a dozen security guards, but a few broke free and kept coming.
We hurried past a security car and were almost to the cafeteria door when I noticed some
thing out of the corner of my eye, a flicker to my left. My head swiveled toward it. Sunlight reflected off metal in a man’s hand. The man stuck out his right arm, Moses-like, pointing at me with an accusing shiver.
I saw a flash, and the universe shifted off balance. Goose bumps spread over my scalp, and something had a grip on my throat. It seemed to take an ungodly amount of time before I felt a pain slam into my back. I gazed into the gunman’s eyes. They seemed as big as baseballs. His mouth turned up at the ends, smiling. This man had no fear, no remorse.
Until that moment, I had always thought of evil as a shadowy form, but the obscene whiteness of the gunman’s toothy smile as he squeezed off another round made me realize that evil comes in every color.
As I turned to protect Jared, my mind vaulted beyond the pain, and I could do nothing but witness the chaos around me. It happened in slow motion. No time and no pain, only people screaming. I surrendered to my terror.
Over the chaotic sound of voices, I heard another pop, like the strike of lightning overhead. Something slammed into my back again. Every muscle in my body let go. My hips snapped to the right, and both knees liquefied. Another pop. Something smacked my head, and I heard my skull crack.
A tension gripped my upper body, as if I were locked in a vise.
I saw blood spatter Jared’s face. We fell, eyeball to eyeball, all the way to the pavement. We hit the ground with a thud and rolled sideways, coming to rest with him over me. His legs continued to kick out like a runner, as if he were trying to cross some invisible finish line.
I called his name. The sound of it ricocheted in my head, and I felt a closing-down in my chest. My vision turned red, and a ringing in my head drowned out all other sounds.
Jared smiled at me. He seemed unconcerned, as if we were tumbling into bed, and he smiled at me. His smile made me feel resentful.
The burning sensation in my chest grew. My God, a thought floated up through the pain, I’m going to die. I opened my mouth to scream, but I couldn’t utter a sound. My head flopped to one side, and I saw with clarity Roy Lin hauling Connor and Shar to the ground while J.D. Lambert tackled the gunman.