Then, Wally asked Flint, “And in the meantime?”
“To be honest,” said Flint, “Not much. Really, one of two things needs to happen. The kidnappers either decide it isn’t worth the trouble any more or the Swiss government does an unprecedented u-turn and devalues their currency to lower prices.”
“Those are the choices?” said Wally.
“The good ones,” said Flint.
“Can’t I do something?” repeated Wally.
Addie had just emerged from her room. “Dad?”
“Yes, Sweetie?”
“Can I go on a date tonight with the hottest guy in school? He just messaged me and asked me out.”
“Addie, now? Your mom’s been kidnapped.”
“I know.”
“Don’t you think we should concentrate on that?” he said.
“And what, go to Switzerland and find her? It’s terrible, but there’s logically nothing we can do.”
Addie had a 4.4 GPA, 2300 SAT’s and was in Honors Physics and Calculus at the Atherton Academy. She was probably right.
“She’s right,” said Flint.
Wally, to Flint, “Thanks.”
“So can I go?” she asked again.
“You know, I think we’re staying in tonight, okay.”
Flint nodded. Addie glared at him, betrayed.
“Fine,” said Addie to both of them. “Then I’ll be the one in my room. Alone.” She retreated to her exile.
Flint looked sympathetically at Wally. “They’re a project at that age. Trust me. I have five.”
“Daughters?”
“Yeah. It isn’t anything religious, we just loved making babies,” said Flint. Then, looking at a photo of Danielle. “You must have too.”
Wally tried hard to make sense of that comment, but his mind kept returning to the kidnapping. “And there’s nothing particular I can do?”
“Not till they call. Just try to relax.”
“I’ve been trying.”
“Maybe play some golf.”
“To relax? You haven’t seen me play.”
Flint was almost to the front door and he paused. “You’re a teaching pro, right?”
“Thirty years now,” said Wally.
“You play college ball?” said Flint.
“Stanford. Late “70’s, early ‘80’s.”
“So we’re about the same age then.” Then seeing an especially curvy Danielle bikini photo, “But your wife is what, 35?”
“She’s my age.”
Flint silently whistled. “Baby.” Then, government agent again, “You play on tour?”
Wally laughed a little, “Not on the menu.”
“With a serve like yours?”
“Today was unusual,” said Wally. “Nervous energy.”
“Still, those last four serves? They had to be at least 160.”
“Hard to know,” said Wally. “We’d need a gun.”
“He has a gun,” said Deuce.
“A radar gun,” said Wally.
“You really should have those checked,” said Flint.
“Thanks. Maybe I will,” said Wally.
Flint pointed to the photo. “May we hold onto this? For reference.”
“Right,” said Deuce.
“Sure. Help yourself,” said Wally.
“Thanks,” said Flint, taking the photo.
“That’s my mom, you know?” said Deuce.
“We’ll be in touch,” said Flint.
“And listening in,” said Deuce.
“Only when we need to,” said Flint. “Thanks for the Monsters.”
“No problem,” said Deuce. “You will find her, right? That guy and his tongue are just sketch.”
SEVEN
They called themselves the Posse Comitatus. Wally. Raj and Cindy from the Yacht Club. And Wally’s high school buddy and pro bro, Brett Jaw. Every Sunday they met at Brett’s teaching court on his feudal homestead for some teaching-pro-trash-talk-hit-and-be-hit doubles.
Brett taught at the estate right next door to the Margincalls’. But right next door in Atherton stretched the concept like morning show news. Neighbors and their staffs needed prior authorization, directions and a good fifteen minutes just to drive up their own asphalt, punch the digits and drive down the adjacent blacktop in order to borrow a cup of Billington’s Muscovado dark brown sugar, truffle oil or the odd bottle of William Selyem.
The Posse chose Brett’s court for their doubles matches because the court was pristine and his benefactors were home even less than the Margincalls. The acre around the secluded court was landscaped like a Grand Hyatt and nestled in a thick, soaring grove of Monterey Pines. The trees however constantly dropped needles on the court, which kept Brett busier than a bilge pump. He was the only person Wally had ever met who truly hated trees. Besides the unending mess, he also didn’t like their uneven shade patterns. Brett loved cleanliness, order and brand new tennis balls that you could see when you swung at them.
To minimize the pine branch disco ball lighting, the four friends gathered when the sun was directly overhead. Today it was at noon and they stood together at the baseline at one end of the court around a hopper of just-opened balls.
Brett was holding a radar gun. “So, Wilsie, broke the land-speed record at the Yacht Club, I hear.”
“Maybe. I wasn’t really paying attention,” said Wally. “I tensed when I heard about Danielle, stepped up to serve. And, yeah, they were faster than usual.”
“Faster than Roddick’s usual,” said Cindy.
“Well, let’s gun some and see,” said Brett. “First, we’ll check the calibration with something nice and slow. Raj?”
As Brett crossed to the other side of the net, Raj said something to him in Hindi.
“I heard that,” said Brett.
“I know you heard it,” said Raj. “That’s the point,”
Brett then said something back to Raj in Hindi.
Raj turned to him with a smile, “Now where did you learn language like that?”
“It must have been last night with your mama.”
“Of course,” said Cindy, shaking her head.
“I don’t think so. I think she was making out with your mama at the time.”
“How does it feel to be twelve?” said Cindy.
“Raj wouldn’t know.”
“Neither would your mama.”
“What?”
Cindy, exasperated, “I rest my case.”
Brett turned on the gun and pointed it toward the other baseline. “Okay, Raj, enough of your immaturity. Let it float, I mean fly.”
Raj hit three serves. And Brett was silent. He shook the gun and looked at the readout.
“Well?” said Raj.
“Sorry, I was distracted. I thought I saw three digits on the readout.”
“UCLA didn’t teach you to count that high?”
“105? 106? 105? No. I didn’t think Yale taught you to hit that hard.”
Raj muttered something else in Hindi. Then, “I guess since I actually work at my job, I don’t have as much time as you private pros to work on my show serve.”
“Yeah, right. But you still get all the girls,” said Brett.
“That has nothing to do with the serve.”
“Believe me,” said Cindy.
“Thanks,” said Raj. “Or were you serious?”
“Obviously. Not,” said Brett. “Cindy, your turn.”
Cindy stepped up and fired off three noticeably faster serves.
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “115. 116. 117.”
Brett looked up, surprised. “Exactly. You been working on your show serve?”
“At Stanford, we learned to hit hard and count.”
Wally high-fived her.
“Gun me, okay?” said Brett.
“How long I’ve waited,” she said.
Brett and Cindy switched ends of the court. Wally was going next after Brett. He felt his hand begin to tense on the racquet grip.
Raj
turned to Wally. “Man, I can’t believe you’re here. I mean I’d be so preoccupied.”
“The kids are both studying and I didn’t want to just sit around and not think about the fact that my wife’s a Swiss captive.”
“And spending her time with that Grosser guy,” added Brett.
“It’s okay if we don’t discuss that,” said Wally.
“Sorry, Wilsie. You’re right. And besides, what kind of ransom do they expect? You don’t have any money.”
“Or that.”
“Sorry again.”
“Ready anytime,” said Cindy.
Brett put in three of his own serves.
Cindy looked at the gun. “110 every time. That’s very good. You almost beat the girl.”
“Yeah, gloat about it. Don’t forget, you’re younger than Raj and me put together.”
“And don’t forget, cuter. And much better at math. Wilsie, you’re up.”
Wally picked up three balls. His hand was squeezing the grip like a stress ball and his arm was a crowbar. He felt a wave of power course through him.
“Cindy, be careful,” warned Wally. “This is going to be big.”
“You’re not the first guy to say that. Go ahead. I’m flexible.”
Raj looked her way.
“Uh huh,” said Brett.
“Okay,” said Wally.
He released a perfect serve toss, swung the racquet with the languid motion of a veteran teaching pro, and cracked an impressive bullet, definitely faster than the last one at the Yacht Club. Cindy barely dodged it.
“Sorry,” said Wally.
Rod Laver the Dog sat up.
“No. You warned me. Wait a second.”
Cindy went out the gate and positioned herself behind the fence in a direct line with Wally’s serve.
“Okay, go,” she said.
Wally hit another serve. Same long, slow motion. And even more speed. It shot through the fence, almost hitting Cindy.
“Okay, do that again,” said Brett.
“This changes physics,” said Raj.
“Or confirms it,” said Cindy.
Rod Laver the Dog slinked back a few steps.
“Does anyone have pads?” she said.
Brett wheeled the ball machine out the gate and put it in front of her.
“Pads,” he said.
Wally hit his third serve. More sonic still. It launched through the fence and stuck in the side of the ball machine. The ball-on-string collision sounded like a gun blast. Not one of them had ever heard that sound on a tennis court before. Not in a good neighborhood anyway. There was a profound, reverent silence and awe. Rod Laver the Dog ran off the court and lay down behind a protective tree, faced away from the action. Cindy looked at the radar gun, then turned and raised her eyebrows.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay?” said Brett. “How fast was it?”
“I don’t know,” said Cindy.
“How can you not know?”
“Your stupid gun only goes to 160. Miles per hour. Every time I look at the readout I see three square digitally eights.”
Brett grabbed his gun. “Great. I think he broke the gun.”
“No. It’s just a crappy gun,” said Cindy.
Raj looked at Wally looking at his own clenched hand.
“My friends, we are truly not worthy,” said Raj. “We are in the presence of greatness.”
“Or at least very fast ball-whacking,” said Cindy.
Brett laughed. “Greatness, my ashwood beam racquet. It’s a warm day with new balls, a really tall guy with good technique and way too much caffeine.”
“I didn’t have any coffee,” said Wally.
To Raj, “Okay, yeah. Then, maybe.”
“You know,” said Wally, “I could serve even faster.”
“And you know, I believe you,” said Brett. “But I could probably serve that fast too if I was six-six.”
“No you couldn’t,” said Raj.
“That’s right, Brett,” said Cindy. “It’s all about size.”
“It sure is in this case.”
Raj walked over to Wally, “You can take the racquet out of your hand now.”
But Wally could barely pry it loose. Raj had to help him. As he did, they both noticed something else. The center strings of the racquet were a frayed, broken mess.
“Nice wear pattern,” said Brett.
“I just had this strung,” said Wally. “What am I going to do now?”
“Get a re-string?” said Raj.
“With a thicker gauge?” said Cindy.
“Only hit second serves?” said Brett.
“Those were,” said Wally.
“Can’t you just hit slower?”
“No. And the more I think about how I can’t hit slower, the faster I hit.”
“I wish I could do that,” said Raj, wistfully.
“No you don’t.”
“So he’s serving a little faster,” said Brett. “We’re pros. We can return them. Enough of big data. Let’s play.”
They all smiled with wary delight at the idea.
“Wilsie, you first,” said Brett.
Their doubles did not last very long.
In the first game, Wally tried to hit third, fourth or even fifth serves, but was unable not to deliver four un-returnable, untouchable, literally thunderous aces.
Brett looked at another set of trashed strings. “You are not fit for polite company.”
“Can I borrow a racquet?” said Wally.
The rest of the games did not go much better. Every ball that came to Wally – groundstroke, volley, serve or overhead – returned to the sender with so much pace that it either scared them, hit them or scorched a line of the open court for a sonic winner. For his part, Wally got tired of raising his “sorry about that one” hand and the others got tired of dodging, ducking or encountering felt bullets. After a few minutes, their friendly doubles devolved into a cruel arcade game. Wally broke the strings in Brett’s loaner frame and three more of Raj’s. After four games, they decided that in the interest of the long-term health of the Posse, Wally would not be allowed to play with them in his current condition, whatever that was.
Cindy probably summed it up best when she said, “I thought this was friendly doubles.”
“Yeah, if your friend’s Bruce Banner,” said Brett.
“You been holding out on us?” said Raj.
“Yes. I’ve always had this serve. I just chose to bring it out today.” Wally shook his head and sighed. “These last few days, I don’t know what’s come over me. On a tennis court, I get this surge of strength and I can hit as hard as I want.”
“Like the Hulk,” said Brett.
“Fan boy, the Hulk was green,” said Cindy. “And that was anger that did it.”
“He had issues,” said Raj. “But so does Wally. He’s been under a lot of stress.”
“But I’m not angry. I think my adrenal gland must be stuck.”
“That’s an issue.”
“May I be honest, as a friend?” said Brett.
“Please,” said Wally.
“It’s pretty cool.”
“Cool that my life is out of control?”
“No, cool that currently you may be the hardest server in the world. Think about that for a moment.”
Raj put his hand on Wally’s shoulder. “Maybe you can’t see it right now, but it is pretty cool.”
Brett nodded at him. “Thank you. And I can’t be the only one here who sees the potential in this either, right?”
“And what exactly is that?” asked Cindy.
“Wally needs to go on tour.”
“Well you did say he wasn’t fit for polite company,” said Cindy.
“That could work,” said Raj.
“I know it could,” said Brett.
“You guys have all been out in the sun way too long,” said Wally.
“That’s true. And usually I’m not inclined to want to indulge their little fantasie
s, but Wally, I think I’d think about thinking about it,” added Cindy.
“I can’t play against playing pros. For one thing, I’m fifty-three.”
Brett looked Wally in the eyes. “Fifty-three is just a number.”
“So is a serve speed,” said Wally. “There’s much more to playing a match than holding serve.”
“Of course. You’re right,” said Brett. “There’s also breaking serve. You can do that too. I saw you today,” said Brett.
Raj joined in. “Connors was thirty-nine. Semis at the Open. Tilden competed to fifty.”
“He’s right. And I’ve always said you didn’t look your age,” said Cindy.
“Yeah. I’ve always said that too,” said Brett.
“You’ve always said I looked older,” said Wally.
“Yeah. Three of four years. Maybe ten.”
Raj kept going, “Muster played an ATP tournament at forty-four. McEnroe’s winning Champions events at fifty-two. And you’ve got fresh legs.”
“And you’re really tall,” said Brett. “We’ve got to find you some better competition. I’m calling Willy.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to play on tour. Even if I could, I don’t think I could afford the stringing.”
“That will be a line item,” said Cindy.
“Don’t hang up on the details,” said Brett. “I’m calling Willy.”
“And I’m going to see my doctor,” said Wally.
EIGHT
Even in an age of concierge medicine, it wasn’t easy finding a doctor on Memorial Day. Wally’s usual physician, Dr. Simmons was at Roland Garros with his all-female staff, and his partner, Dr. Fleischman was on call and hoping not to come in today. After three tries, Wally finally reached Fleischman on his cell phone at the Yacht Club, where he was resting between approach volley drills against the ball machine.
Dr. Fleischman was a balding, tenacious and relentlessly perky 3.5’er with bountiful body hair, the build of Stefano Capriati and the energy of Vitas Geralaitus. He and his partner, 1998 Wimbledon champion, Jana Novatna, had lost to Stich and Ashley in the quarters at the club Member-Ringer tournament and he blamed the loss on his temperamental net game.
He hadn’t quite fixed his volley and arrived at his office, agitated, sweaty and just off the court in the Nike French Open Federer package, including the color-matched bandana. His sour mood brightened considerably, however, once he toweled off, had a Gatorade and learned that his emergency patient was Wally Wilson, the teaching pro. To his mind, his karma account had just compounded, with interest. This was like a free lesson.
SLAMMIN' Page 4