Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  I lifted an eyebrow and gazed at Shar, who suddenly seemed embarrassed. Yes, her cheeks were definitely reddening.

  “I don’t want to fight Roy.”

  “Leave him to me,” Connor said.

  “All right, work out with us today and talk to him tonight.”

  A smile fluttered on Connor’s lips. His shoulders dropped six inches as his face rose. I guessed what was going through his head. He had played in only a half-dozen tournaments, but he had already realized that the pro tour is a lonesome and stressful affair. Most players are on their own: no coach, no family, few friends. It feels like it’s you battling the universe. Being part of a team helps to mitigate that pressure.

  I had my men drop and do two minutes of fast push-ups while I told Shar what I had in mind. “Clay court tennis is all about long, grueling points, big strokes, endless running and sliding. It’s the most physically demanding surface. Hard courts take a toll on the joints, but clay saps the muscles, and because clay makes the ball bounce higher, the chest and shoulders take more impact, so we alter the conditioning. A good clay workout improves strength, flexibility, and anaerobic conditioning in the upper body as well as the trunk and legs.”

  Push-ups for two minutes alternated by squats for two minutes. Repeat, repeat, repeat. The squats stretch and strengthen the hamstrings, inner thigh, quadriceps, buttock, and calves. Twenty minutes of that had them panting.

  We began an easy warm-up. As they grabbed their rackets and took to the court, Connor draped his arm over Spencer’s shoulders and squeezed. The intimate look that passed between them told me that the hard feelings that had come between them had evaporated. They shared that intimacy I saw on the beach that first day. This time I felt no envy, only happiness.

  While the boys warmed up, I explained to Shar that most clay-courters are retrievers rather than aggressors. They work longer points, keep the ball in play with safe, loopy shots, and have the perseverance to grind out a five-hour match.

  My philosophy was different. On a surface where sliding, moving, and changing directions is challenging at best, it’s better to be the player dictating the point, and that means aggressive play. Yes, I wanted them to hit the ball higher over the net and with tons of topspin to bring it back into the court, but the gritty surface slows the ball and affords them an added split-second to get to each ball. That means they have more time to set up and hit a commanding shot closer to the lines. Jared had won his previous matches with that same aggressive style. I simply wanted to improve on what he had already done.

  I called them over and reminded them that in ninety percent of all hard court rallies, the ball is struck less than five times. In a clay court match, the average is eight to ten balls per rally. Clay court tennis is grueling, and to win on clay, you have to suffer. Your willingness to push yourself beyond your personal pain threshold is the barometer of how far you will go on clay.

  I think that’s why Jared was unbeatable and Connor struggled. Jared’s fury blocked out his pain, and vengeance drove him past his endurance, whereas when Connor began to feel the pain, he gave in to it.

  They began slowly, generating safe, loopy, groundstrokes. I had them notch up the aggression, another notch, up and up until they smashed every ball. They both had great wheels and seemed comfortable moving on the gritty surface, but neither slid into their shots like the better clay courters do.

  After forty minutes of aggressive drills, I heard Roy Lin’s gravelly voice directly behind me.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  Connor ran over as I wheeled around to face Roy.

  Connor’s sweaty face showed a mixture of joy and fear. He said with mock happiness, “Look, Dad, Daniel is coaching me again. We’re having an awesome workout.”

  “Stay away from my boy,” Roy barked, pointing a finger in my face. “We don’t need your kind of trouble.”

  Before I could answer, Connor stepped between us. “I want Daniel to coach me. When I worked with him, my game improved, but I’ve gone downhill ever since the shooting.”

  “You’re in a slump because you’re playing on clay. Your game is better suited for hard courts. You’ll be fine once we’re past the clay court season. Besides, he can’t even walk, how the hell can he help you with drills?”

  “Dad, seventy percent of this game is up here.” Connor’s voice grew loud as he rapped his head with his knuckles. “And he has that seventy percent that you and I don’t have.” Connor stopped abruptly, keeping himself from going too far.

  Stinging silence.

  “Dad, I love you,” he continued. “You’re the reason I’m doing this, but I’m not backing down. Daniel is my coach, my only coach, and I’m not going back on court without him in my corner. You don’t like that, Uncle Harman can drive you to the airport.”

  Roy stood speechless while the blood drained from his face. I knew he truly believed his child could never have spoken to him in that manner and tone of voice. Truth be told, I was equally shocked. We all were. That didn’t happen in Chinese families. It gave me a pretty good indication of just how scared and lonely Connor had become.

  Roy stuttered, “I’ll catch a cab to the hotel. We’ll talk more tonight.” He stalked away. Uncle Harman reached over and patted Connor’s shoulder. He also shook my hand and told me he was happy that we were all working together again. He glanced at Spencer and smiled with his eyes.

  We finished our workout with thirty minutes of serving practice. I felt that both my boys were working too hard to win points, and it would sure help to get some cheap points now and again. To that end, I wanted to increase the velocity of their serves by having them use a lower toss and abbreviated take-back to get them serving consistently in the upper 120 mile-per-hour range. That would ensure more unreturnables and also make it easier for them to control the rally if the ball did come back.

  While Jared and Connor ambled to the locker room to prepare for their afternoon matches, Spencer wheeled me into the stadium to watch Jared’s first round against Mariano Delores from Argentina. He was a respected clay court specialist, so I thought this match could easily go the distance. Connor’s first round was on an outer court and would go on about the time Jared’s match would probably finish.

  When I first saw center court from the perspective of my chair, a lump lodged in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. The burnt red dirt is not really clay but made from crushed brick often called terre battue (the battle ground). A black net dissects the court into two equal halves, while snow-white lines define the rectangular boundaries of the playing field. Between the lines and the spectators’ seats are the game’s peripherals—chair umpire, lines judges, ball kids—taking their positions like chess pieces on the board. I loved the absolute orderliness of it, the precisely defined battlefield, bound within the rules of the game.

  We waited only fifteen minutes before the players strutted onto the court. Jared wore all white clothes, a red bandana, and his now trademark red slashes on his cheek—his war paint. He looked ruthlessly intimidating.

  Even more menacing was how he carried himself. I had seen this new, brutal persona on television, but now I witnessed his metamorphosis right before my eyes, and it scared me. I could not fathom how the man who had held me so tenderly through the night could be this paint-wearing fiend.

  As they began to play, his savagery became even more evident. It allowed him to dominate his opponent. He never doubted that he could win every point. He sometimes turned his fury on himself, but he knew that he couldn’t be outgunned. He had supreme confidence that he could squash his opponent like a bug, and with Jared, it was obviously personal. He got cranked up like nobody else in the game. His new tenacity and grit were without equal. Tennis was his Roman Coliseum, and he became its fiercest gladiator.

  He crushed Delores 6-2, 6-3, in an hour and twenty minutes. We now had ample time to make it to Connor’s match. As Spencer wheeled me down the ramp and out of the stadium, I tingled all over. For the fi
rst time, I wholly believed that Jared had what it took to be the best player in the world.

  EUROPEAN tennis fans knew nothing of Connor Lin, but they took notice that afternoon. He played the Swedish veteran, Thomas Lundy. Smart money bet heavily that Connor would go down in straight sets. To everyone’s surprise, mine included, Connor won the match 6-0, 6-0 in fifty-three minutes. Reporters in the pressroom joked that he played like he was double-parked. I suspected that he was furious with himself for hurting his father, and he poured that fire into his game without losing focus.

  In fact, his focus sharpened to a razor’s edge. I’d seen him do that before. With heightened intensity, his game radiated flair. He played by deviant rules of physics, pushing the envelope of what is physically possible, rules he made up himself seemingly on the fly. Awed, Jared and I kept turning to stare open-mouthed at each other, but I questioned whether or not Connor could maintain that intensity once his anger subsided.

  Watching him lift his game even higher in the second set, I felt a shimmer whiff through my head, becoming white-hot and, like liquefied metal, slowly oozing down the length of my spine. When it hit my testicles, my whole body shook violently. I now coached two of the top players on the planet, perhaps even the top two, and how exciting it would be when, not if, they met in a Grand Slam final.

  That night, as we retrieved our key at the hotel’s front desk, the clerk slipped Jared a cable that had arrived an hour earlier. Jared opened the envelope and read silently. Somewhat dazed, he passed the note to me. It was from Carrie. She had arrived in Rome and had gone directly to the tournament site, where she demanded to see the tournament director. She had somehow bullied him into reinstating Jared’s wildcard entry.

  Sitting in that ornate lobby, I almost wept. A concerned bellhop asked in broken English if there was something wrong, something he could help us with. We laughed.

  We found out later that my stunt at the airport, pretending that Carrie was my lawyer, had inspired her. She told the Roman tournament director that she represented a law firm engaged by the tournament’s main sponsor. She claimed the sponsor was concerned that its gay clientele would be angered by their move and that if we were not given the wildcard, the sponsor would withdraw its support for next year’s tournament.

  You really have to love any woman with balls that big. I felt so lightheaded I thought I would faint. The next thing I knew, Jared had lifted me out of my chair and given me a loving hug as he carried me to our room.

  Chapter 24

  JARED’S elation soon cooled, and his silence returned. We ate dinner in our hotel room with him as talkative as a gravestone. I tried to coax him into conversation by making plans for Rome, but I might as well have been on another planet. Being ignored was my punishment for not flying back home. I knew his silent treatment could last for days, maybe weeks, but I felt determined to overcome it.

  He wheeled the dinner trolley into the hallway and shut the door. He stripped down to his jockey shorts, walked to the bathroom sink, and began brushing his teeth.

  “When you’re finished, let’s talk about tomorrow’s game plan,” I said, attempting to spark some kind of conversation. I thought keeping it tennis related was a sure ploy.

  Through the bathroom door, I heard him spit, rinse his mouth, spit again. When he returned to the bedroom, he didn’t reply, wouldn’t look at me. He strolled to the bed, pulled the covers back, and crawled in.

  “We need to talk,” I said. “I mean, if I’m going to be of any help, we need to talk.”

  He switched off the bedside lamp and turned his back to me.

  “Unbelievable!” My voice rose to louder decibels than I had intended.

  Silence.

  “Ignoring me will not drive me away.”

  Louder silence.

  “If I hadn’t come, this would be your last tournament. Carrie and I got you into Rome, and maybe, just maybe, we can help get you into the French too.”

  Deafening silence.

  “What’s happened to you?”

  It occurred to me that Jared’s silence was different from the other times he had ignored me. In the past, I could wait it out or lure him into talking with a good tease. But this immutable silence came from Jared’s new battle-hardened persona. The fortitude I had seen in his tennis game now reared its head in our bedroom. This formidable determination came from an absolute resolve to fight with all his inner strength and crush any opposition to his will. He battled me with the same intensity that he fought the rest of the world.

  I wheeled into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, undressed, and turned off the light. Slipping between the sheets, I pressed against his stiff back, holding him with one arm around his waist. At least he didn’t pull away. I kissed his neck. I felt the strong urge to say that I was sorry, but that seemed patronizing, and that was the last thing he wanted. I considered giving in, telling him I would fly home, but that was the last thing I wanted.

  I had to say something, if for nothing more that to hear my own voice. “If we must fight each other, then we’ll fight,” I whispered. “But I’m not leaving, and you’re not pushing me away like some useless bag of garbage.”

  He finally uttered a prolonged sigh. A moment later, he turned to face me and, without a word, pulled me into that hollow space between his arms. He began kissing my face so softly that I wasn’t sure what he was doing. I thought his kisses would escalate into lovemaking, but after a minute, he simply held me until he fell asleep.

  I WOKE to the sound of the door closing. Room service had delivered a breakfast tray. I sat up, squinting against the harsh morning light at the clock beside the bed, and realized I had overslept. I turned sideways, and pain raced up my back, grabbing my full attention. Shar had not come for our sunrise therapy session, I thought, until I noticed a syringe and a bottle of morphine lying on the nightstand. She had come, but Jared had sent her away. He sat at the table pouring coffee. We glared eye to eye. Fresh anger inflamed his pupils so intensely that I braced myself for another silent day.

  I gave myself an injection, dropped into my chair, and wheeled to the table. Jared poured maple syrup onto a stack of pancakes, quartered the stack, and wedged a whole quarter into his mouth. The tight muscles in his jaw made a clicking sound as he chewed. He had ordered me a basket of blueberry muffins, my favorite. He poured me coffee without being asked. It was strong and bitter and very hot. The muffins were warm and wonderfully fragrant.

  “You should have awakened me an hour ago,” I said. “We’ll have to hurry. The car will be downstairs in thirty minutes.”

  No response. He didn’t lift his eyes from his plate. How strange, I thought. He is so contradictory that he denies me Shar’s therapy and his companionship while at the same time ensuring that I have my favorite breakfast. I began to hate his thoughtfulness as well as his cruelty.

  My attempt at small talk failed miserably, so I tried a different, more blunt approach. “Why can’t you make love to me?” I asked in a rush. “Am I so repulsive now?”

  No response.

  “If you don’t answer me, I’m going to throw this coffee in your face!”

  His head lifted and his eyes bore into mine. “What if there is another gunman out there? I can’t protect you from these fanatics. We proved that in Florida. If you die, what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

  “If I die today, wouldn’t it be better if we had made love last night?”

  “Better is putting your skinny butt on a plane and getting you somewhere safe.”

  “It’s okay to hate me a little. Sometimes I hate you too. I hate your good legs, your strength, your ability to ignore me.”

  His face froze with pensive rejection.

  I said, “We need to fight them, not each other.”

  He winced, and I knew I’d hit a home run. “I fought them just fine before you came.”

  “That may be, but you’re forcing me to be a cripple, and I’ve had enough of that. Don’t you see? I can’t fight the demons in my
head sitting alone in our apartment. I need to be with you.”

  “I put you in that chair by not backing down. You died on that operating table, and they brought you back. Do you know what that did to me, the idea of me killing you?”

  “That’s why you’ve ignored me?”

  “The hospital staff wouldn’t let me see you, wouldn’t even tell me your status. They said I wasn’t family, so I had no legal rights. When your parents came, they told us you had a thirty-percent chance that the brain damage would make you a vegetable. When we got a second chance, I vowed I would never put you in harm’s way again.”

  “I’ll take that risk,” I said, but the lump in my throat made me wonder if that was true.

  “You want everything to be the way it was, and it can’t. The world has changed; we’ve changed. There’s real danger lurking out there. These fanatics are not just trying to stop us, they’re trying to kill us.”

  “You’re right. I’m not the man I was. I’m not nearly as strong now, and I can’t deal with being brushed aside. On top of that, these pain medications fuck with my head. Half the time I’m not sure what’s real. I know I’m being overly dramatic, but, tell me, could you live with yourself if I shot up a whole vial of morphine or swallowed a bottle of painkillers? I’m not threatening you. I’m saying that I’m unstable, and there is danger no matter what we do.”

  He suddenly looked stunned and, for the first time, not sure of himself.

  I took a couple of deep breaths. “And let’s discuss the flip side. If they kill you, who is left alone? Who has to go through life sitting in this fucking chair, lonesome and unwanted? You think I can deal with that any better than you? You have always been the taker, the selfish one, and that’s always been fine with me. But goddamnit, I have needs too.”

  I sat in the silent aftermath, glaring at his face, which was framed by the tasteful blue wallpaper. He stood, threw his napkin onto his half-finished pancakes, and stalked to the bathroom.