They had to pause at the entrance gate so the guards could look through their computer bags and wand them, much the way they had done at the Final Four. Once they were inside, Stevie could see that the vast grounds of the tennis center were still virtually empty. “Public can’t come in until ten-thirty,” Kelleher said, as if reading Stevie’s mind. “This is my favorite time of day to walk around out here. In fact, let’s put our stuff down and then walk over to the practice courts. We might run into some people. Once the crowds come in, you can’t get close to anything over there if one of the names is practicing.”
“You mean like Andy Roddick?” Susan Carol asked.
“You got it.”
They were walking with the main stadium, which Stevie could see was huge, to their left. To their right were the practice courts Kelleher had been referring to. In front of them, Stevie could see what looked like a large open plaza, with a fountain bubbling up in the middle.
“Where are all the other courts?” Stevie said.
“You can’t see them from here,” Kelleher said. “I’ll show you once we drop our stuff off in the media room. The smaller stadium and the Grandstand court are around to the left. The outside courts are over on the right, beyond the plaza. They’re the best place to watch the first week, because you can practically walk right up to the court since the area around each of them is so small. The players hate playing there because they feel like the fans are right on top of them.”
They didn’t have to walk far to get to the glass doors with a sign that said MEDIA CENTER. There were two guards on the door, neither of whom had an answer for Kelleher’s “Good morning.” They eyed everyone’s badge, then stepped out of the way. Walking inside, Stevie could see a cafeteria on the left. To the right was the entrance to the media work area. Even an hour before the matches began, it was humming with life. As they walked by the front desk, Stevie could hear shouting in what sounded like at least three different languages.
“Annual battle,” Kelleher said, again seeming to know what Stevie was wondering. “Foreign media get upset when one of their stars gets put on an outside court—which the USTA always does. Today, they’ll be angry because Nadal’s out on court twelve. There will be a riot out there with people trying to find a place to sit.”
“Rafael Nadal is the number two player in the world,” Susan Carol said. “He won the French Open. Why in the world would they put him on an outside court?”
Kelleher, who was leading them through a maze of desks, nodding hello to people as he went, smiled. “Because of tennis politics. You go to the French Open or Wimbledon, they’ll take Roddick or the Williams sisters and stick them on an outside court. The French are notorious for it. They’ll put French qualifiers on center court and stick an American star way outside. Pete Sampras’s last match at Wimbledon was on court two.”
“I remember that,” Stevie said. “He lost in the second round, didn’t he?”
“Yeah,” Kelleher said. “Then he had to fight through the crowds to get back to the locker room because only center court and court one are accessible from the locker room without going out among the masses.”
“Guess that’s what they mean by ‘going outside,’ huh?” Susan Carol said. “Court two’s the one they call the graveyard of champions, right?”
“Very good, Susan Carol,” Kelleher said with a smile. “Lot of big upsets have taken place out there. And, to be fair, the Brits always stick players outside. But Pete Sampras? He won the event seven times!”
“So the Americans get even at the Open,” Stevie said.
“Yup,” Kelleher said. “Nadal is really a tough one because it isn’t just the Spanish media that has to cover him, it’s everyone from Europe. Take a look at the schedule on the Armstrong Court. They’ve got Nick Nocera there. I mean, who wants to watch Nick Nocera besides friends, family, and his agent?”
Stevie didn’t even know the name. Naturally, Susan Carol did. “Didn’t he make the semis here last year?” she said. “And he beat Roddick in Indianapolis.”
“Jeez, Susan Carol, what don’t you know?” Kelleher said.
“Yes, he had a great tournament last year here because the draw opened up. And he did beat Roddick in Indy. That jumped him to about twenty-fifth in the world. You and I and Bud Collins know who he is and that’s about it. That may change, but as of this moment—”
He was interrupted by someone shouting, “Robertino! Robertino!”
A huge smile came across Kelleher’s face as the shouter approached, arms open wide. Stevie did a double take. It was the man Kelleher had just been talking about—Bud Collins.
“Colleeny!” Kelleher shouted with as much enthusiasm as Collins had shown. “Ciao, caro!”
The two men hugged. “And?” Collins asked. “Where is the fair Tamara?”
“Be here this afternoon,” Kelleher said. “Hey, I want you to meet a couple of people.”
He put an arm around Collins’s shoulders. “Stevie, Susan Carol, I want you to meet the one and only Bud Collins. Bud, this is Stevie Thomas and Susan Carol Anderson.”
“Wonderful to meet you both,” Collins said. He gave Stevie a warm handshake, then kissed Susan Carol on both cheeks, the way it was done in Europe.
“So these are the two young saviors you told me about from New Orleans, eh, Robertino?” Collins said. “My goodness, you two were heroic. I read all about you. Read your stuff too. You two have accomplished more at thirteen than most of us will in a lifetime.”
Stevie felt himself flush. He couldn’t believe Bud Collins had read anything he had written. When he had first watched Wimbledon on TV with his father, he had immediately noticed Collins, the man with the warm smile, the white beard, and the pants that were almost blinding to look at. Collins reminded him in many ways of Dick Vitale, the college basketball announcer whose enthusiasm was legendary. Stevie had met him in New Orleans and his ears were still ringing. Collins wasn’t as loud as Vitale but he was similarly enthusiastic about his sport. Stevie’s dad had told him that Collins had been the first man ever to broadcast tennis on television, back in the 1960s, when the PBS station in Boston decided to telecast the local tournament played there. He had gone on to become “the voice of tennis” on NBC. Stevie hadn’t realized that he was friends with Kelleher.
“Mr. Collins, I’ve watched you since I was a baby,” Susan Carol was saying. “And I really loved reading your book.”
She had him there. Stevie didn’t know Collins had written a book.
“My book!” Collins screamed. “You read my book! I wrote it before you were born! Wait one second.”
He scurried to a desk a few yards away from Kelleher’s that was marked BOSTON GLOBE and began burrowing through a gigantic bag. “Aha, knew I had one.” He pulled a book out of the bag, opened it, and quickly scribbled something inside. He walked back and handed it to Susan Carol. Stevie could see a picture of Collins on the cover and could see the title, My Life with the Pros.
“Stevie, I’m sorry, I only have one,” Collins said. “I will track one down for you too.”
Before Stevie could say anything, Susan Carol was hugging Collins to say thank you. Stevie was embarrassed he hadn’t known about the book. “Thank you so much,” she said.
“No, no, thank you,” Collins said. “It’s been years since anyone mentioned it. Always thought the book would have done better if they’d stayed with my title.”
“What was that?” Stevie asked.
“What a Sweet Racquet,” Collins said.
“Oh, that’s a much better title,” Susan Carol said. Stevie would have thought she was sucking up, but this was Bud Collins, so it was not only okay, it was appropriate.
“So, Robertino, who are these two young mavens going to write about today?” Collins said.
“Haven’t asked yet,” Kelleher said. “Guys?”
Stevie had figured he’d be going wherever Kelleher needed him, so he hadn’t studied the schedule that closely. He did know that he w
anted to see Symanova play, if possible, and that her first-round match was later in the day. She was one of the few stars playing on the afternoon program the first day. He had read a story in the Sunday paper about the U.S. Tennis Association dragging the first round out over three days so that the men’s semifinals wouldn’t be played until the second Saturday—to accommodate TV. Every other Grand Slam event played the men’s semis on Friday.
Susan Carol—naturally—knew the schedule by heart. “Well, I was hoping to go see Evelyn Rubin play at eleven o’clock,” she said. “She’s on an outside court, I forget which number. And then I saw that Symanova is playing over on Louis Armstrong late this afternoon and I know Stevie wants to see that.”
“Stevie and every red-blooded American or non-American male on the grounds,” Collins said, laughing. “Why do you want to see Rubin play, my dear? I hear she’s quite good, but what’s your interest?”
“My uncle is her agent.”
Collins did a double take. “Your uncle is an agent? But you seem like such a nice girl.”
Kelleher laughed. “Now, Bud, you can’t choose your relatives.”
“You can’t?” Collins said. “I’ve chosen three wives—and here comes one of them now.”
Stevie saw a tall, elegant-looking woman walking up to them. It turned out she was his wife, Anita Klaussen. “Bud, don’t go agent bashing again,” she said, walking up.
“What’s not to bash?” Kelleher said.
“Are they that bad?” Susan Carol asked.
“Well, I don’t know your uncle, so I’ll presume he’s a fine fellow,” Collins said. “But agents are responsible for most of the ills of tennis, and the ills of tennis are endless.”
“But you love tennis,” Stevie said.
“I do. I just don’t love the people running it,” Collins said. “Look, you all must have dinner with us one night. We’ll talk more. Right now, I have to go figure out who to write about today. Stevie, Susan Carol, you keep an eye on Robertino for me.”
He trundled off with Anita right behind.
“Why ‘Robertino’?” Stevie asked Kelleher.
Kelleher smiled. “Bud loves all things Italian. Spends a month in Italy every year. He would rather speak Italian than English. So he Italianizes everyone’s name. Guaranteed, the next time you see him he’ll call you Stefano.”
“What about me?” Susan Carol asked.
“He’ll probably stick to cara,” Kelleher said. “That’s Italian for ‘darling.’”
Susan Carol looked at her watch. “The matches will be starting soon,” she said.
“You’re right,” Kelleher said. “I have to go to the Grandstand and watch Paul Goldstein play. He’s a D.C. kid, and if I don’t write about him today, he might be gone by tomorrow. Are you serious about going to see your uncle’s client?”
Susan Carol nodded. “Yes. I think she might be a good story for me the first day. No one knows her and she’s playing someone who is seeded. I think it’s Maggie Maleeva.”
“Maggie Maleeva?” Kelleher said. “I swear she played against Billie Jean King. She must be a hundred years old.”
He picked up a schedule and scanned it. “You’ve got it—Maggie Maleeva, court 18—it’s way out on the far end of the grounds. Shows you what they think of Maggie Maleeva. She’s the number twenty-two seed, playing a young American, and they have her playing halfway to New Jersey. Do you think you can find it?”
“I can find it,” Susan Carol said. “Stevie, you gonna go with me?”
Stevie looked at Kelleher. “What do you need me to do?” he asked.
“For right now, you can go with Susan Carol,” he said.
“Keep that cell phone of yours on. If something’s happening and I need you to get to a match, I’ll call you. With so few seeded players playing this afternoon, we need to wait and see what develops.”
“Can I watch Symanova later?” he asked.
Kelleher smiled. “Unless something crazy happens, sure,” he said. “I wouldn’t deny you that. In fact, I have no plans to deny myself that either.”
Susan Carol sighed. “Why are boys so predictable?” she said.
For once, she had thrown Stevie a hanging curveball. “Oh, Andy, aah am so thrilled to meet you….”
She turned bright red, which pleased him to no end. “Okay, okay, I give. Come on, let’s go. Apparently we’ve got a long way to walk.”
Kelleher had not exaggerated about court 18 being at the far end of the grounds. They walked out of the press center, went past the practice courts, and crossed the plaza—Collins no doubt would have called it a piazza. The plaza was surrounded by merchandise kiosks. Just about every corporate name connected to sports seemed to have a place to sell its wares: Nike, Reebok, Adidas, and Prince were names that jumped out at him right away. There was a place where you could test the speed of your serve and another where you could buy “official” USTA merchandise. Stevie knew from his Final Four experience that that would be the most expensive stuff on the grounds. As they crossed the plaza, they could smell food straight ahead. Stevie saw a sign that said FOOD COURT. It was only eleven o’clock, but the smell of grilling hamburgers made him hungry. Below the arrow pointing to the food court were more arrows pointing people in various directions: stadium, Louis Armstrong, corporate village, practice courts. At the bottom one of them said COURTS 10–18, guiding them to turn right and head away from the main stadium, which people were now starting to make their way into since the gates were open.
“That reminds me,” he said as they began picking their way through people to follow the sign leading them to the outside courts. “What’s with Louis Armstrong?”
She sighed as if he had asked who Andy Roddick was. “When they first moved here from Forest Hills in 1978, the main stadium was named after Louis Armstrong,” she said.
“What does Louis Armstrong have to do with tennis?” he asked.
“Nothing. But the stadium was once used as a place for concerts. Since Louis Armstrong had lived near here, they named it for him. Before that, it had been used during the World’s Fair….”
“Okay, fine, but what about the tennis played in there?”
“I’m getting to that. When they built the new stadium”—she paused and pointed over her shoulder at Arthur Ashe Stadium—“they took the upper deck off of Louis Armstrong”—she turned again and pointed briefly at a much smaller structure about a hundred yards from the main stadium—“and made it into the number one side court. It seats, I think, about ten thousand.”
“I have one more question.”
“What?”
“Is there anything you don’t know?”
She smiled. “Yes. Why you never bother to know anything.”
The crowds thinned as they approached court 18. Most people were walking in the opposite direction from Stevie and Susan Carol. Court 18 was up against a fence that separated the tennis center from a local park. There was seating around it, but not much—two tiers of bleachers on either side of the court. Still, that was plenty of room for the crowd on hand. Stevie guessed there were fewer than a hundred people watching the match.
It was 2–2 in the first set when Stevie and Susan Carol quietly slid into seats on the bleachers. Evelyn Rubin was wearing a white baseball cap and had light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Stevie guessed she was about his height. She was already glistening with perspiration in the morning heat as she and Maggie Maleeva stood at the baseline blasting ground strokes at one another. Maleeva held serve for 3–2 and the two players walked to their chairs to change sides, no more than fifteen feet from where Stevie and Susan Carol were sitting.
Rubin sat down and took a long sip of water. She took her cap off and pulled the elastic out of her ponytail to reknot it, and for a moment her hair fell to her shoulders. She was close enough that Stevie could see she had enormous brown eyes.
“Wow,” he said, forgetting where he was.
“I told you,” Susan Carol said.
“She’s pretty,” he said. “But she isn’t any prettier than you.”
He couldn’t tell if Susan Carol was blushing, because she had put on a cap too. “Why, Steven Richman Thomas, I do declare that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
She was doing her Southern belle routine. He wished he had never told her his middle name. It was his mother’s maiden name. “I try, Scarlett,” he said, smiling nevertheless as the players stood to resume the match.
They ended up in a tiebreak in the first set. Rubin was a lot stronger than she looked. She blasted her ground strokes off both her forehand and her backhand and was quick enough to chase down balls that appeared to be winners. Twice, she saved set points by racing into the corner to turn what looked like a Maleeva winner into a crosscourt winner of her own—once off the forehand, the other off the backhand.
“Your uncle wasn’t kidding,” Stevie whispered. “She can play.”
“The only thing she can’t do well is volley,” Susan Carol said. “But very few of the women can volley.”
Stevie nodded. Maleeva had no more interest in getting to the net than Rubin did. They both treated the area close to the net as if it was radioactive. In the end, Rubin saved a total of five set points and won the tiebreak, 12–10. Maleeva looked like she might cry—which reminded Stevie of something he had read once about the three Maleeva sisters who had played on tour. All of them, it seemed, had a penchant for crying when things didn’t go well, so they had been nicknamed the Boo-Hoo Sisters.
As the players changed sides before the start of the second set, he mentioned the nickname to Susan Carol, who giggled.
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