After this latest news, he just hoped he could keep the ball in the court.
FIFTEEN
Three weeks passed with no Danielle, no demands and no diverting food or drink. The Wilson house pushed forward like Pac Man, endured an uneasy equilibrium and silently ignored their looming gorilla. It was Eugene O’Neill in a Craftsman. With a balloon payment jumbo. Still, as it had for years, clay gave way to grass and life went on.
It was early Sunday morning, July 3rd, a notoriety checkpoint on the road through the Atherton summer. Caught at home this time of year by the status police and your striver’s license could be revoked. Tahoe was bulging, Europe was bursting and no vacation home was left unturned. If you were someone, you were someone who wasn’t here. Or if you were here and you were someone, you didn’t admit it. Most of Wally’s students were gone and Ashley was in Kenya by way of Sao Paolo, Helsinki and Jimmy Choo. Wally on the other hand, was on the Margincall’s court in his carbon fiber Panama, hitting serve returns against a ball machine and praying for synchronicity, faster reflexes and action at a distance.
Post Chamisal, Wally had been a tanned man possessed. He and Rod Laver the Dog had run the two miles to the court that morning at six, kicking off a ninety-minute, door-to-door workout. Wally’s fitness had leveled up and so had Rod’s. And though Rod probably intuited Wally’s emotional pain like the hound he was, he had never been happier. Exercising and spending every waking and sleeping minute with his human, lapping up water, affection and predictable meal times, he was existentially complete. And sleepy. Dogs slept a lot and dreamed of this.
Wally, however, had never dreamed of this. He was a teaching pro. But here he was at seven-thirty a.m., on Wimbledon Sunday, with Rod, Willy and an apple green surrogate server, sweating through the same self-inflicted drill they’d been doing every lesson-cancellation-ravaged day since the Carmel Valley Qualifier.
They called the ball machine Ivo Karlovic, after the tall, taciturn Croation tour terror. It loomed nine feet above the opposite mid-court T, roosting at a steep angle atop a beautiful Wally Wilson wood scaffolding that elevated it to a Karlovic-like serving height. Ivo threw out the first pneumatic pseudo serves at around one hundred and ten miles per hour then cranked the mph as the session heated up and Wally wore on. But that wasn’t all.
The towering metal ersatz Slav would launch balls down to random spots in the service square, and Wally would try to return them. But before he’d even followed through, Willy, standing at the net, fed him full-pace follow-ups to another random, deep location. After Wally crushed these shots-after into one of four life-sized Roger Federer foam core standups on the opposite baseline, he had to run to the side fence, touch it, say “Lleyton Hewitt” and run back to his receiving position. It was a man/machine two-on-one drill of reflexes, recovery and endurance.
That was the Platonic version anyway. Today, he returned about half the shots. Solid, not tour level, but better. When he started three weeks ago, it was one out of ten.
He’d improved to fifty per cent partially because he was lighter and faster than before. Not Juan Martin yet, but not Charles Barkley anymore either. He and Willy had agreed that his only chance against the top ATP pros at the Open was to improve his speed, endurance and serve returns. Or have them all mass default. The strength and stroke parts of the game he owned, and his volleys and touch shots, completely grooved from years of teaching were also completely irrelevant to his crush-and-conquer match plan. He was aiming to be Goran Ivanesevic, but with mental stability. And maybe a serve return. This one drill checked off all the necessary improvement boxes. And for the first time in thirty years, or maybe ever, he had what a coach might almost call footwork.
And he was taking steps to make that happen. A lot of steps. Every fifteen minutes, after downing a liter of Willy’s celery, carrot and kale energy brew, Wally broke away, ran up the driveway, touched the front gates, jabbed his fingers in a “V” toward his eyes, yelled, “Come on!” and ran back. When he returned, the ball hurled out faster and intervals all got shorter. And he wished the brew was a little more carrot and a little less kale.
Fortunately, none of his physique reduction had dimmed his power. If anything, after his last encounter with Agent Flint he was hitting even harder, snapping more frames and busting more balls.
He would have made explosion of the week on “Myth Busters”, but all the popping and breaking broke his rhythm. And it was expensive. So he’d had to refine his equipment too. Wilson made Wally a special 50mm, double-thick, 22-ounce Pro Staff Original with extra-large-bore grommet holes to accommodate the 13-guage carbon fiber string Dirk’s dad’s company had made for him. The string had no resilience, but it was durable, legal and lasted a set or so in match conditions. He was still not certain he trusted Dirk, but the Ross family sure knew their polymers. This arresting combination of super-thick string and triple-digit tensions would ruin most players’ shoulders, elbows and egos, but it was a must if Wally hoped to consistently rope two hundred twenty miles per hour or more of serve into the box.
Ivo had now advanced to the final interval they’d nicknamed, Death Throw. The ball shot into the serve piazza at one hundred forty miles per hour, the follow-up shot was outbound a fraction later and when Wally could connect, the Federer cutout took another hit.
“I like this drill,” said Willy.
“Of course you do,” gasped Wally as he shuttled to the fence for his touch-up and affirmation. “You’re feeding.”
“But it may not be enough,” said Willy. “Retchy Crane trains his reflexes on an Air Force simulator and Formula One video games.”
“This is plenty,” said Wally, slamming Fed with another forehand.
“I hope so. Retchy just made the quarters at Wimbledon. He’s the future of tennis. Tall, fast, quick and strong.”
“Hey, I’m tall,” said Wally, barely fending off a low shot to the body. “But Retchy’s not our concern.”
“He’s moving up.”
“Flame on, flame out. He’s what, fifteen?”
“I don’t know. Nineteen, I think.” Then, as if it explained things. “He’s Andalusian.”
“Andorran. A skinny, Andorran teenager. Today it’s still Rafa, Djokr and Fed. The cream rises.”
“So do rising stars.”
“Is this your idea of a pep talk?”
“Sorry, bro. It was a reality check. Misplaced the other card.”
Wally was dripping. This was his fourth shirt of the morning. “Just keep ‘em coming.”
“Bro, you’ve done your ninety. Let’s go watch the final.”
Willy turned off the ball machine.
“Turn it back on.”
“What?”
“I want to hit some more. A Nadal/Djokovic final will take hours. The ball bouncing alone.”
“You’ve really done enough today.”
“Who’s the teaching pro?”
“Who’s the coach? Bro, you’re baked.”
“I know. I am.” Wally was exhausted, but still on his toes, waiting for the next return. “But she’s not back yet. So I haven’t done enough.”
“You know those two things aren’t logically connected, right?”
Wally angrily rifled a backhand at a corrugated Federer.
“None of this is logically connected!”
Willy squirmed.
Wally never got angry. He never swore. Even to himself. He was mild, level and PG-Rated. Wally was the older brother. His advantage had always been his mental stability.
Willy reached deep inside himself, looking hard for a calming device.
“Bro, we’re out of fresh shirts. The Posse’s waiting.”
Wally slammed down his racquet.
“Don’t thwart me, William!”
There went the mental stability advantage.
“I’m not. I’m trying to coach you.”
“Nice try. No one can coach tennis players!”
Willy tried to think quickly and respond in s
ome appropriate way he was yet to imagine, but then in Big Surprise Number Two, Wally all of a sudden charged the net, bent over it and started sobbing. Right then, seeing his brother as three-dimensional and perhaps vulnerable, Willy’s world was forever changed. At least for the moment.
Not knowing the territory at all, Willy awkwardly put his arms around his older brother. It was a moving tableau. Two Ents in a group hug.
“Bro, you’re not doing too well,” observed Willy.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re leaning on me.”
Wally laughed through the tears. “Well, you’re not doing too well either. What kind of coach stops a player from insane amounts of exhaustion and over-training anyway?”
“The good kind?”
Wally still held onto him.
Self-conscious, Willy adjusted his hug hold.
“Let’s go home,” said Willy. “To your home, where your friends are waiting to eat your food, drink you hooch and watch your TV. I’ll drive.”
Wally pulled away, stood up straight and stared at Willy.
“You drive?” said Willy, trying to mollify.
A craggy moment.
And then the moment passed and Wally was mild, level, PG-rated Wally again. Hopefully, stable too.
“Alright, I’ll meet you there,” said Wally. “You drive. I’ll run.”
“Okay.”
Willy got in the Mustang and trotted up the long driveway. That took a minute. Wally stood, frozen on the court, and waited one more minute. Rod Laver the Dog looked up at him.
“But not right now,” said Wally.
He took his shirt off, re-booted Ivo and took the position.
So did Rod, settling in for a nap. It was all fine with him. His human set the tone.
Wally knew he could bring Danielle back. And this would do it. It was all connected.
The green machine spooled up, flung one more bombastic blast and then abruptly died. Wally stood waiting. Nothing came out. Maybe a ball was stuck. But there were no felt bursts from the little square porthole. And nothing in the nozzle. He poked at the remote.
“Ivo?” said Wally.
Still nothing. He walked to the fence and checked the power cord and socket. All prongs were plugged. The big machine was annoyingly inert. What the heck? This was the Margincall’s. They didn’t have power outages or past due bills. They sent the bills. This was a faith-shaker. It raised questions too. Ashley’s dad didn’t own the power grid?
Gravel crunched. Willy and the Mustang cantered down the drive, angled back into the parking spaces by the court and tied up. Willy got out. Knowing and conniving himself, he had clearly waited three minutes.
“Yes?” said Wally.
Willy smiled the smile of the smug and the caring.
“Two words for you,” he said. “Circuit. Breaker. Logically connected to the court outlets. Now, can we go?”
Wally almost smiled too. But this was his little brother. He’d been three-dimensional enough for one morning.
“Yeah, but I’m still running.”
“Cool. I’ll be right behind you.”
“I know. Thanks.” He smiled. “But don’t do it again.”
SIXTEEN
As promised, Wally left the court and ran home. He sweated off two pounds of angst and glycogen reserves but topped up with some lactates and high-test dopamine. He was calmer now, and focused and really sore.
So this was what evolving felt like. Not exactly painless. Not at 163, anyway. And it didn’t exactly make sense yet either. Why evolve now? Wasn’t he already a responsible, caring guy with a dash of spiritual awareness? Why the fifth Chakra makeover? There was no doubt that last month had remodeled him in body, mind and the other part. But why did he need it? And how would it turn out?
Danielle probably wouldn’t fully recognize him. Even he didn’t fully recognize him. In many ways. Not only was he was lighter than on his wedding day or in high school, but he was fitter. And anthropologically altered. And really sore.
He tried to shower the soreness away, but he only succeeded in getting clean. Well, no pain, no brain. Or something like that. So, feeling 164, he slowly dressed. And then, like teaching pros everywhere, he was back in tennis clothes. So were his guests.
They were all at his house. His family. Sophie. The Posse. In their Nike finery. Eating his food. Imbibing his drinks. And watching his TV. It was breakfast at Wimbledon. By Emeril. Gaggia. And Robert Parker. Strawberries and cream, of course, but also, bacon, sausage, pancakes, waffles and crepes with three fillings and more bacon, butter and beignets.
And there were the drinks. With breakfast, perfect macchiatos. Two shots of espresso skimmed with foam. And after, LGD. Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Champagne Brut La Grande Dame. A lemony, creamy leftover from Wally’s previous life. A perfect champagne with tiny, pricey bubbles. So perfect that Willy had threatened bodily harm to anyone who used it for mimosas. It was a needless heed. Everyone knew LGD had a higher, special purpose. And a special, stunning price point.
Wally meanwhile dutifully ingested the pariah plate sampler. Oatmeal. Toast. Strawberries. And water. No macchiato. No LGD. No foam. No bubbles. His was breakfast at Wimbledon by Dr. Oz. Quaker. And Gil Reyes. Afterwards, he still felt hungry, but the urge had changed. The hunger didn’t control him. He’d evolved to a state approaching acceptance. Beta Endorphins helped. So did his higher purpose. So did the big F-word. Fatigue. Because of it, he still needed naps, but then so did Usain Bolt. And naps were good. You couldn’t crave when you napped.
Rod Laver the Dog had two waffles and a dropped strawberry and he was cloudy-sky zoned. His evolution had advanced and plateaued and he was coasting blissfully. Biologically self-actualized, he could eat whatever he wanted and go on to crave while he napped.
Spread around the living room, food and drink in hand and mouth, Wally’s self-deputized, ensuite crew of line judges and color commentators was critically half-watching the Wimbledon Men’s Championship on his big-screen HD TV. It was 4 – 2 Djokovic in the fourth set and Rafa was about to serve to stay afloat, down two sets to one, and looking close to capsizing under a wave of wide-angle groundies and a tide of timely half-volleys.
Cindy had the remote, because she always had the remote.
Raj, who had been trying to interest her for a year, thought she was remote.
Angrily attacking a waffle, Brett yelled at the TV, “Crosscourt! Crosscourt! Don’t hit that thing up the line!”
The group all groaned.
“Guys, it’s an ad,” said Cindy.
“It’s still wrong,” said Brett.
“He’s past his limit. Cut off his waffles!” said Raj.
Cindy smiled at that. Raj noticed.
“Won’t do any good. He’s too far gone,” said Willy. “Leave him. We’ll call a cab.”
“But aren’t we liable?” said Raj.
“Only if he drives,” said Willy. “And I’ve got the batter.”
“That doesn’t really make sense,” said Raj.
“Cindy, it’s back on,” said Deuce.
Cindy un-muted the sound.
“Okay, flutes up,” said Brett. “This time, Nole double towels or they show the president of Serbia.”
The Grand Dame’s higher purpose was a drinking game called ‘ Sip Let’ that changed triggers every two games.
“I’m so glad we didn’t do the Rafa shorts-tug,” said Cindy.
“That’s for sloppy drunks,” said Willy.
“And we’re sportsmen,” said Raj.
Cindy smiled at that too. Raj smiled back.
Very encouraging. Raj wondered if this was the day. Was he finally breaking through? He had humor. She could see that now. And she seemed to be responding. Yet she still wasn’t exactly looking at him in any meaningful or lascivious way. Sort of like at work. He needed a marketing edge.
After an opening double fault, Nadal quickly lost his service game. Nole had double-toweled twice. Raj split his focus between Ci
ndy and SW19, and took four shots of bubbly, one for each toweling. He wasn’t the only one.
There had been beaucoup sipping. This was their fifth fifth. At two hundred per, Wally could have bought his New Haven stay with the equivalent. But it was his wake and he wanted his friends to celebrate. It wasn’t every day you left an old skin behind. Unless of course your name was Donald Grosser.
Feeling champagne-frisky, Raj bro-nudged Wally’s shoulder. “You know, if you’re going to be on TV, you need some tics. It’s part of the product now.”
“He has the hat,” said Willy.
“That’s not a tic, it’s a shtick,” said Brett, biting a crepe. “And do they make carbon fiber in white?”
“Excellent question,” said Wally. “A decimal says they do.”
Brett extended his hand. “You’re on.”
Djokovic toweled and wiped. They all knocked back their Waterford flutes. Deuce gulped some milk. 40 – 15. The cameras cut to a shot of the president of Serbia. They knocked back again.
“This is a long match,” said Brett. “I’m glad we’re staying hydrated. So who has Djokovic again?”
Deuce raised a lone hand, “I do.”
“Only you? Bad choice. Nadal’s coming back,” said Brett.
“Hold on. Match point,” said Cindy.
“Already?” said Willy, mid-blintz.
“What?” said Brett.
“I say Rafa misses a backhand,” said Deuce.
“Ten small says he doesn’t,” said Brett.
“Twenty,” said Deuce. “Nadal’s coming back.”
“Thirty,” said Brett.
“Right on.”
Djokovic served, Rafa sliced a one-handed backhand to his forehand, Djokovic gunned it to Rafa’s backhand and Rafa chunked a two-hander long.
Novak Djokovic had just won Wimbledon!
SLAMMIN' Page 11