Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  “I ran into these two in Rome, and we decided it would be a lark to show up and cheer our boys on,” Carrie said.

  “We were hoping to watch Connor,” Shar said, “but it doesn’t look like we’ll get in.”

  “We have a couple of empty seats in the players’ section,” I offered.

  “That might upset Connor,” Shar said. “I wanted to just blend in with the crowd.”

  “He’d be happy to see you, I’m sure of it.”

  She looked at Raoul, and a note of doubt crossed her face.

  Raoul said, “You go. I’d rather go to court central and watch Maria. She’s such a fox. Meet me at the front gate after the match and we’ll go someplace more interesting.” He bent and kissed her before strolling off.

  “You do like the young ones,” I said.

  “It’s a control thing. I like to have the upper hand. But he chain smokes; kissing him tastes like licking an ashtray. And he always wears that regretful smile, like he’d rather be somewhere else. It’s maddening.”

  Spencer wheeled my chair around and pushed me toward the players’ section. Shar and Carrie walked on either side of us. Shar asked, “Did he take it hard?”

  “Ya think?” Spencer hissed before I could respond.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt him. Everything just derailed, and I couldn’t stop it.”

  “No one blames you,” I said.

  “Humph!” Spencer mumbled.

  “How’s his game?”

  “His legs are rested, but he hasn’t played a match since Rome. He could be vulnerable. Let’s face it, he played great with you in his corner, and he played like crap without you. He’s still so fragile.”

  Music played over the loudspeakers, Paul Simon’s “Learn How to Fall,” and I noticed it for the first time.

  “Wish I could do something to help,” she mumbled.

  “Try an apology!” Spencer snapped.

  “He’d spit in my face.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Love has a way of working through that kind of stuff.”

  She paused, and I could tell she was surprised by the word “love.”

  Spencer wheeled me as close to our seats as possible. Bruno lifted me in his arms as if I were a bag of feathers and carried me the rest of the way, sitting me beside Jared. Roy, who sat on the other side of Jared, leaned forward with his eyebrows lifted almost to his hairline, watching Shar slide down the aisle to sit next to me. He nodded at her, keeping his lips pressed together. Jared reached across me and shook her hand, telling her, “What a pleasant surprise.” He did the same for Carrie. Bruno and Gunther sat directly behind us.

  A cheer followed Connor and Philip Seaborne, a French veteran and a crowd favorite, onto the court. Connor strolled to his chair and dropped his bag. He pulled out a racket and tapped it against his palm to test the tension. When he glanced our way and saw Shar, his expression turned icy. He turned his back on us, and I saw the dragon on his back move in a serpent-like coil. I suddenly regretted inviting her. It became obvious that she would affect his concentration.

  As the referee tossed the coin, I glanced around, looking for a hole for me and her to crawl into, and noticed that Uncle Harman was missing.

  I nudged Jared’s ribs. “Where’s Harman?”

  “He left town on some personal business. He’ll be back in a few days.”

  “Nobody tells me nothing these days.”

  “Nobody tells me nothing,” Jared mimicked my whine. He smiled.

  During the five-minute warm-up, Connor became flustered, and I suspected it was because of Shar. I touched her arm, ready to suggest that she leave, but before I could say anything, she pulled a handkerchief and a tube of lipstick from her purse. She spread out the pristine white cloth and used the lipstick to write on it: “I’m Sorry!” and, underneath that, “I love you!”

  I waited, hoping the note would help.

  Connor finished his warm-up serves and walked toward his chair. Shar held up her handkerchief as he glanced our way. He came to a full stop, staring at those little red words. His face froze, perfectly still, with that beautiful sheen of sweat reflecting the sun’s rays. Finally, the ends of his mouth lifted into a wide smile. He sprinted to his chair with a new energy.

  Connor won three sets in eighty-six minutes. It seemed as if he couldn’t wait to get off the court. As soon as the players had shaken hands, Connor bounded into the stands to hug Shar.

  “You’re back?”

  “You want me?”

  “Baby, I’m miserable without you.”

  “Tell you what, darling. I need to take care of some personal business and pick up a few things at my hotel. I’ll meet you somewhere for a quiet dinner, and we’ll talk.”

  “I have a better idea,” Connor said. “You go take care of your personal business, whatever his name is, and then bring your bags to my hotel. We’ll have dinner in our room after you unpack. Deal?”

  She hesitated, smiled.

  They shared a sensual kiss while the fans erupted with ear-shattering cheers. The embroidered dragon on Connor’s shirt seemed to undulate in an erotic dance while clinging to his spine. The TV cameras zoomed in for close-ups, and the announcer was broadcasting something over the loudspeaker, but I couldn’t hear what. After this moment, I thought, there will never be any doubt in anybody’s mind of Connor’s sexual preference.

  When Connor finally became aware of the clamor that his kiss was causing, he blushed, not quite so red as an apple.

  THAT night, as Jared soaked in a hot bath, Spencer knocked on our door. At first I assumed he was simply lonely because Harman was out of town and Connor was holed up in his room with Shar, but he sat on the couch, opened Harman’s laptop computer, and showed me an email that had been sent to Jared. It was the same picture that had been sent before the Sony Ericsson tournament—a drag queen in full makeup with his throat cut from ear to ear—and scrawled across the bottom of the photograph was a message: “We have unfinished business!”

  Chapter 32

  THE first week of the tournament flew by like a whirlwind. Jared won his matches easily, demonstrating that he was a top contender.

  At the beginning of the second week, Jared played Jose Lamas, the defending champion. After beating Lamas in Rome, Jared couldn’t wait to play him again. It turned out to be a routine win for Jared. Lamas walked on court with fire in his eyes and looking for revenge, but he couldn’t get his game going. Every time he would string a few good strokes together, Jared would crush him with a bullet angling out wide, just out of his reach.

  Jared made only six unforced errors in the first set, feeding Lamas only scraps, and certainly not enough to make a meal. At the beginning of the second set, Lamas already had that whipped dog look in his eyes, the same look I saw in Rome. By the middle of the third set, Lamas’s mind was on the jet home. Jared’s easy win over Lamas convinced everyone that Jared had become invincible on the red dirt; the pawn had become the king, at least on clay.

  Connor, as usual, struggled with each match. After that first win, he suffered through three five-set matches in a row. In each one, he would outplay his opponents to win the first two sets and then get nervous and lose confidence. He spiraled downwards, losing the next two sets, then lifted his game enough to tough out the fifth. Each match he put in a gutsy fight, proving he had heart, but I began to worry. It is a common saying in tennis that you can’t win a Grand Slam tournament in the first week, but you can sure lose it, meaning that you can wear yourself down too early in the tournament and have nothing left in the tank for the homestretch.

  In the doubles, my boys pummeled everybody. I knew that if Connor’s legs held together, they would at least win the doubles championship. As for the singles, I still wasn’t sure; Roland Garros has a history of early round upsets and surprise finalists. Form and ranking don’t hold up here like they do at the other Slams. Regardless of my uncertainty, it had proved to be the most exciting week of my life, and every second I was there, at
courtside or being wheeled through the crowds, I was frightened to death.

  I told Carrie about the “unfinished business” email. She begged me to tell the others, but there was no way to keep Jared and Connor playing at the top of their games if they had to deal with that additional pressure. In fact, armed bodyguards or not, I was sure Jared would send me home if he knew. I did tip off the bodyguards, and to my surprise, they wanted a copy of the email, telling me that they could track the sender down. The only problem was that it would take a week or two, even with help from the authorities.

  So I sat in my chair, surrounded by bodyguards, trying to stay focused on the tennis and support my players, but not a minute passed that I didn’t scan the crowd—a fat man wearing a shiny silver cross around his neck while standing beside the women’s restroom door, a woman in a dark blue business suit with a scowl on her face, a Chinese man wearing a heavy coat on a hot day—in a society of religion-bred hatred, you never knew.

  The one thing I did know was that if people out there were trying to hurt us, the deeper into the tournament my boys went, the greater the risk. I was praying my bodyguards would identify these jokers before anything happened.

  Another issue added to my chronic anxiety: Joshua McEwan, the hot-headed Aussie, had begun mouthing off during his press conferences about his disdain of playing fairies. He had lost his second-round doubles match to Jared and Connor, and that left him seething. He won his singles matches easily, and he and Jared were on a collision course to meet in the semifinal.

  The press speculated that it would be the match of the tournament. They queried McEwan about the outcome, and when he openly showed his contempt for Jared, they egged him on. It was Indian Wells all over again; people took sides, and the press fueled the fires to build up the drama. I was seemingly the only one dreading the semifinal confrontation, but not because I though McEwan would win.

  True to form, on the second Wednesday of the tournament, both Jared and McEwan won their quarterfinal matches to set up the longed-for meeting in the first semifinal. Jared was excited about the match-up and mentally prepared himself to play his most aggressive tennis ever. He didn’t simply intend to win; he wanted to humiliate the Aussie and to shut his mouth for good.

  On the day that Connor played his quarterfinal match against Eduardo Flores from Chile, Uncle Harman surprised us all by returning to Paris. Why he had left town he wouldn’t say, but before he arrived at Roland Garros, he swung by the airport and picked up Connor’s grandparents. They had flown in on the slim chance that Connor would make it into the final.

  Harman and the grandparents arrived just as Connor and Flores marched onto the field of battle. We were sitting in the first row, and when Connor saw them, he rushed over. Reaching up and taking his grandfather’s hand, he gave it a gentle squeeze. Joy replaced the sickened look on Connor’s face, and I began to hope that it would spur him on to win over a very tough competitor.

  Once again, though, Connor won the first two sets with an array of beautiful—and deadly—inside-out forehands, his new signature shot, and dropped the next two sets with the same old story of crumbling nerves and wobbly focus. By that point, I had become confident he would win, but I also knew his legs were taking a beating.

  Sure enough, Connor raised his game and cruised to a commanding lead in the fifth by using his quick feet, shot variety, and his own personal flair. Watching his flashy play style, I had to shake my head, remembering those first few months of working with him, when there was nothing flashy about him, when underneath he was somewhat shy, slightly self-conscious, and prone to nibbling on his nails. A year later, his expansive confidence, effortless power, flawless footwork, and deft angles made him one of the sport’s most spectacular shot-makers.

  He won, as I predicted, but as he jogged to the net to shake hands, I noticed a slight limp. I looked closer. Yes, he was definitely favoring his right leg. It was especially troublesome considering he needed to play his semifinal doubles match with Jared in just over an hour. He also needed to play his singles semifinal match the next day, Friday, without the benefit of the usual day of rest.

  The good news was that if he won his singles semifinal match against Christopher Drake on Friday, he would have Saturday to rest before the final on Sunday afternoon.

  I turned to Shar. “You see that?”

  “I’m on it,” she responded, with the same note of concern I had in my voice. “I’ll pump him with fluids and keep him on the massage table until it’s time for his doubles.”

  I leaned closer to her. “I’m very happy you’re back.”

  “What about you?” Carrie said. “You should continue your physical therapy conditioning.”

  Connor had not given me a therapy session since coming to Paris. Remembering those stretches made me realize with a shock that, even though I had slowly reduced my comfort shot to nearly nothing, during the last week, I had hardly felt any pain. Between worrying about the “unfinished business” email and with the rest of my attention riveted on my players’ needs, I had not given my body a thought. Even when I was engrossed in a match and forgot to take my medication, I still didn’t notice the pain.

  Was my body recovering to the point that I could stop swallowing a mountain of pills every day, or had I merely acclimated to the pain like passengers aboard an ocean liner acclimate to the rolling of the ship? Either way, I smiled and shook my head no.

  We killed thirty minutes at the players’ cafeteria catching up on the news from home that Connor’s grandparents could tell. Harman got us a practice court, and I supervised Jared while Spencer warmed him up. Jared needed to carry Connor through the match—to cover most of the court and, more importantly, he had to keep the points short. Ideally, we needed a quick straight-set win so Connor didn’t aggravate his injured leg.

  We ambled back to the cafeteria to wait for Connor, but when we arrived, he and Shar were already sitting with Roy, J.D., and his grandparents. They all had such glum looks on their faces that I thought Connor must have sustained a serious injury.

  I wheeled over to see what had happened only to find that Connor was physically fine. As it turned out, Grandfather Lin had been busy the last few months getting Connor accepted into Stanford University, and he had just handed Connor the acceptance papers and told him he was starting in the fall term.

  “But how?” Connor whined.

  “I convinced them you would make a fine tennis coach for their team if they enrolled you. If you do well, there will be no problem with being accepted into their medical school.”

  Connor looked to his father, but Roy stayed surprisingly quiet, turning his head away. Connor turned back to his grandfather and explained that he had no intention of giving up his tennis career yet. Medical school would have to wait five or six years. He was now a star and on the verge of breaking through the top ten. He could become one of the game’s all-time greats, like Laver, Borg, and Sampras. He could become a source of pride and inspiration for Chinese people the world over.

  The old man shook his head. “How great can you be playing a game? Sacrificing yourself to save people’s lives, that is the only great profession. And you, Connor, not even two years ago gave me your word that you would become a doctor if we could find the money for school. This is your dream!” The old man glanced at Roy, back at Connor, shook his head again. “Harman, take your mother and me back to the hotel,” he said flatly.

  We all sat as still as mannequins while Uncle Harman led his parents out of the cafeteria and they disappeared into the crowd.

  Finally, Roy clasped Connor’s shoulder. “The old man is out of touch. He doesn’t understand how important this is.”

  “He understands perfectly,” Connor responded.

  “I hate to break up this family moment,” I said, “but we have a doubles match on court one in ten minutes. Let’s deal with this later.”

  Court one is the most intimate show court at Roland Garros. It’s called “the Bullring” because of it
s circular shape. As my two bodyguards carried me down to the players’ section and sat me beside Roy, Shar, Carrie, and Spencer, I felt the sinking feeling that Connor’s sudden dark mood would lose them the match. Once the opponents identified Connor’s weakness, they would drive every ball at him.

  Sure enough, Connor came out of the blocks sluggish, and the opponents picked on him. Jared played awesome tennis to stay even, but Connor couldn’t lift his game enough to give them the edge they needed. They lost the first set 3-6. I became angry, not with Connor’s lack of concentration, but at Grandfather Lin for butting into Connor’s business without being asked. With each shot that Connor missed, my anger rose until steam was coming out of my eyeballs.

  During the first game of the second set, Jared began to favor his left leg until it became a noticeable limp. He called a medical timeout at the changeover, and the trainer rushed onto the court, taped Jared’s ankle, and the match resumed. Jared continued to limp, and now he had a beaten dog expression on his face. I hung my head. My God, I thought, we came so close, and now both my players are damaged goods.

  As the match wore on, however, Jared and Connor began to win game after game, holding serve and breaking their opponents easily. Between points, Jared winced in pain as he limped, but during the points, he scampered like a gazelle.

  It finally dawned on me that he was faking the injury to convince his opponents that he was the weaker player so they would direct the balls to him, like the mother bird pretending to have a broken wing to lead the fox away from the baby chicks. Amazingly, it worked. I kept expecting the opponents to wise up, but by the time they did, my boys had a break in the third set, and that momentum helped them close out the match.

  That was it. With the help of some brilliant gamesmanship, my boys were in the doubles final. Assuming we could get Connor’s head back on straight and keep his legs from cramping, I was once again confident the title was ours.