“No. No. No,” yelled Brett.
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Deuce. “Thirty, right?”
“Yes, thirty, right,” said Brett. “I mean, yes, good call.”
Djokovic had done it. He was a Wimbledon champion. And now number one in the world. The president of Serbia was really happy. The Djokovics were really happy. Deuce was really happy.
Novak opened his mouth, looked to the sky and flopped on his back on the lawn. No one really knew why the pros always did this. Were they tired? Hot? Lawn-drunk?
Deuce smiled shamelessly. Everyone turned away from the TV. Viewing interest just vanished. Unobserved in the background, Djokovic was eating Centre Court sod. Not many pros did that.
Deuce addressed the room, “Awesome match. Time to pay up, ladies and gentlemen.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Raj.
Everyone had bet on Nadal. Deuce took the pot. As he made the rounds, they all handed him their money.
“I’m not sure we can trust you,” said Brett, “You stuck it. Total sets. Elapsed time. Grass wear. You need to drink more. Good thing I don’t care who won.”
“Yeah, I’m a Federer fan too,” said Raj.
“Me too,” said Cindy.
Even better, thought Raj. They had common interests.
“But whatever,” said Brett, “The real money will be betting on Wally in the Open. Can you say 300 to 1? Can you say Lamborghini Aventador?”
“The real money will be winning it,” said Willy. “Here’s to Wally!”
All the toasted, toasted.
“And his formerly glorious champagne stash,” said Brett.
Deuce went to his dad and handed him his gains.
“What’s this?” said Wally.
Deuce, proudly, “A hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“I can see that,” he said. “What for?”
“U.S. Open entry fee. I know our balance sheet’s tight.”
“But this is your money.”
“Dad, you know I don’t gamble. I won it for you.”
Wally was touched. “Thanks, Deuce.”
“If you need more, I can loan you some of my show money.”
Wally hugged him.
“I think we’ll be okay,” said Wally. “We’re having a bake sale next weekend.”
“A bake sale? Yeah, that’ll do it,” said Brett.
“It will,” said Willy. “Sophie’s out front selling.”
Sophie grabbed a blintz and bit it suggestively.
“Okay. I was wrong,” said Brett. “Lucky blintz.”
Cindy had changed the channel and was now focused man-style on Golf Channel highlights of the A.T.&T. National PGA tournament.
“I thought we were watching sports,” said Brett.
“I like golf,” said Cindy.
“I do too,” said Brett. “But on the holiest of holy tennis days?” He checked the TV. “Alright, who’s playing?”
“Who cares?” said Willy. “Let’s bet on something.”
“Tiger makes a six-footer?”
“Twenty says he misses from three.”
“Go, Eldrick!” said Brett.
Sophie joined Cindy front row center.
“You too?” said Brett.
“Sure. Golfers are cute,” said Cindy.
“So are tennis players,” said Raj.
“But golfers have better manners,” said Cindy.
“Not a very high net,” said Raj.
“Not even a net,” said Wally.
“And they dress better too,” added Sophie.
Willy glanced down at his workout shorts and untucked Wilson logo t-shirt. He tucked the shirt in.
“Ditto.”
“Same.”
“And they’re not so sweaty,” said Cindy.
“We’re not sweaty,” said Raj. “We’re teaching pros.”
“Federer doesn’t sweat,” said Willy.
“Yeah, but he’s Swiss,” said Brett.
“Good point. Does Wawrinka sweat?”
“Who knows? He’s never on.”
“Wait a minute. So Federer could be a teaching pro?”
“Yeah.”
“Or a golfer?”
“He’s cute enough,” said Sophie.
Outside, Dirk’s white M3 sauntered up and growled to a stop. On cue, Addie emerged from her sanctum, clean, sparkling and three times stronger than steel in a white carbon fiber tennis dress.
“Who won?” asked Addie cheerily.
“Djokovic,” said Wally.
“Good. He’s cute and he doesn’t pick his butt.”
She snagged a racquet from the hall closet.
Wally’s eyebrows went up. Addie was voluntarily playing tennis?
“Dirk’s teaching me tennis,” she explained to a room full of tennis pros. “I’m going to play on the team senior year.”
She skipped to the front door. “We’ll be at his court. Back later.”
Wally followed her to the door, waved to Dirk and watched her go.
“Was that white carbon fiber?” said Deuce.
“Yeah. Three times stronger than steel,” said Brett.
He handed Willy a Hamilton.
Wally stood gazing at the departing Bavarian. By a twisted chain of loosely-connected links, flashing flesh at a party had led his daughter back to tennis, a doting boyfriend, and higher tensile strength clothing.
Who was evolving now? And by what means? And what was he supposed to think of it? Or Dirk? Or the month of June? Or the whole of his existence to this point?
For a minute, he forgot about his finances. Then Raj joined them.
“You know, Wilsie, if it’ll help the cause, I’d like to buy your car.”
“Raj. No. You’re not sober.”
“True. But I’d like to buy your Mustang.”
“Are you sure?”
“About your car? Very.”
“This a big decision,” said Wally.
“I’m okay with it,” said Raj.
“For me,” said Wally, “Let me think about it, okay?”
“Of course.”
“Dad?” asked a worried Deuce.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you want to do this? It is a show-condition 1968 Selby GT 500.”
“I know,” said Wally. “I’ll consider it carefully. Don’t wet your pants.”
“I might.”
In outward space and time, Wally deliberated for maybe thirteen seconds. On his inner clock, a lifetime of assumptions unwound at light speed. Or maybe a little faster.
The past five weeks flashed by first. The foiled re-fi. A tuition bump at the Atherton Academy. Daniel not making any money. Wally not making much either. His life had wandered off course. Where was the help? What person or force would make things right again?
His consciousness was now a quickly raging stream of connections.
No matter how much he thought he controlled his life, when things got tough it seemed he had always waited for something or someone to appear and make things right. Some being from an unseen background of favorable forces. Angels. Bosses. Advisors. His son, offering him his magic show money. How sad was that?
And then it struck him.
He wasn’t really that evolved. He was still a dependent. An immature, protean plus size.
Delaying action. Ignoring consequences. Expecting someone else to help him out because of the way he wanted his life to be. He was still a big-and-tall man-child waiting for a rescue.
But the mortgage industry didn’t owe him a new second deed. He chose to buy too much house and then hyperextend. The Atherton Academy didn’t owe his kids a spot and the money to pay for it. He chose private schools. And no one owed his family a living. He chose the greatest career a man could have and with it the impressively low job security and inherent uncertainty. And the keratosis, asymmetrical musculature and occasional topless landowners’ daughters.
If he wanted to live near the rich and famous, he needed to figure ou
t exactly how valuable that was to him. And what he’d give up to keep up. His car was worth a lot. But he wasn’t guaranteed a 1968 GT 500 with Le Mans stripes and a Paxton supercharger either. Unless he could afford to keep it. And right now, he couldn’t. He needed to take care of himself and his family and his decisions. This was the business end of responsibility.
Why had no one told him about this before? This and a whole list of other ineffable stuff? Hunh?
There were indeed mysteries in this life. Some of them sped by at 186,000 per too. Why did animated films have the wittiest dialogue? Why was the seventh cut on an album usually the best? Why did it take a crisis for men to finally realize important truths?
And was he not just selling a car? Was he actually making a big decision?
He thought he took care of things. He thought he took care of his family. But no one owed him that explanation either. There was a lot more to being an adult than he knew or had ever known. Responsibility meant you understood your place in the world. And how much of it you could afford. It meant you didn’t lie to anyone, including yourself. And sometimes it meant hard, uncomfortable decisions involving a pressing need for ready cash and the impromptu, sacrifice sale of the sexiest car ever built.
And this was sometimes.
Wally had no doubt that the urgency and rough truth of this moment would fade once everything got back to normal. Whenever and whatever that was going to be. But right now, he knew exactly what to do. And why he needed to do it. And, weirdly, he went ahead and did it anyway.
“Alright,” he found himself saying to Raj. “I’ll do it. I never thought I would, but I will.”
“That was fast,” said Raj.
“That was careful?” said Deuce.
Yes, thought Wally, careful, fast and evolved.
“Thanks, Wilsie,” said Raj. “I have big plans for it.”
“I’m glad,” he said sincerely. “Enjoy it.”
“I think I will.”
“So that’s it?” Deuce asked his dad.
“I think so,” said Wally.
“I did just wet my pants,” said Deuce.
“Well, son, that’s what dark colors are for,” said his father.
“Thanks, Raj,” said Wally.
“Congratulations, Raj,” said Deuce, trying to feeling magnanimous. “But this still may still not get her.”
“Who?” said Raj.
Deuce nodded at Cindy, now completely transfixed by the PGA tour on TV. “Her.”
Raj looked surprised. Deuce could tell?
Not only that, but he could tell that Raj wondered if he could tell.
“Yeah, sorry to say it,” said Deuce, “but everyone can tell. And I think she’s got some golfer fixation,”
Rough territory. Wally tried a quick detour. “Son, I know you like the car.”
“Well, yeah.”
“No, he’s right,” said Raj. “That is my plan.”
“To get her with a car?” said Wally.
“To get her with a car?” said Deuce.
“Not just a car, gentlemen,” said Raj. “A GT 500. My Camry sure didn’t do it.”
Raj looked hopefully at Cindy.
“My parents always wanted a safe and sensible lawyer with a reliable mid-sized import. And now they’ve got a tennis pro with a muscle car. I feel so good right now!”
He and Wally shook hands.
“I am so sold!” gushed Raj. Then he hugged Wally.
Wally lifted his water glass, “Okay, then. Here’s to your plan.”
He and Raj toasted the sale. Raj turned to look at Cindy watching the TV. She, however, wasn’t remotely looking his way. Both she and Sophie were locked in on one particular DVR-frozen golfer.
Sophie’s voice rose above the broadcast. “You’re dating him?”
Cindy grinned and nodded.
Raj dropped his flute on his foot. She’s dating?
Sophie shot Cindy a sly, sisterly smile. “He’s gorgeous. And he’s in the lead.”
Raj looked like his cat’s mother just died. “I don’t feel so good right now.”
“Hey, it’s still a classic,” said Deuce.
Raj didn’t hear him. He grabbed Brett’s nearby glass of champagne and drained it. He re-filled it and killed that one too.
Deuce whispered to his dad, “Well, that was just in time.”
“For us,” said Wally.
Raj tilted and staggered.
“I’ve gotta go,” said Raj.
Wally reached out and steadied him. “Maybe you shouldn’t drive it home quite yet.”
“A golfer?” whimpered Raj, crumbling onto the couch. “That golfer?”
“Cheer up,” said Wally. “It could have been a lawyer. Or Brett.”
“Or a woman,” volunteered Deuce.
But Raj was betrayed-dude-focused on the frozen golfer on the TV.
“It’s worse than that, my friends,” he said.
“My History Of Comparative Thought teacher?” said Deuce.
“My brother,” said Raj.
A digestive pause.
“You have a brother on tour?” said Deuce.
Raj nodded ruefully.
“Well, she’ll be well provided for,” said Deuce.
“Yeah. Great,” said Raj. “There’s a sliver of a lining.”
Blocking Raj’s view, Wally helped him up. “Hey, why don’t we go look for that pink slip?”
“Unh, hunh. Okay. You got any scotch? Or Xanax?” said Raj.
Wally had one but not the other. Neither was a good idea. But Wally knew the impulse. He understood Raj entirely.
Raj was a dependent too. Dependent on a car. Dependent on a change. Waiting for a woman. Waiting for the rescue. Waiting for a savior. Wally knew the signs. He’d just evolved. And not a moment too late.
Next day was July 4th. Un-dependence Day. What was the right way to celebrate? And what was next? He thought of his aching quads. His diet. His future. There was only one path. As he helped Raj up off the couch, he knew what he had to do.
SEVENTEEN
For the next seven weeks, he trained even harder.
EIGHTEEN
Then it was time.
In the last seven weeks, their strange life without Danielle had become a routine. But Wally refused to get used to it. He made a hazelnut Americano for her each morning, a mushroom, Gruyere omelet with truffles on Sunday and set her place at dinner each night. He rented some films she’d wanted him to see, read a few books she’d recommended and imagined the disagreement-foreplay that always followed their discussions.
Deuce backed his dad and pretended right along. Addie went through the motions but said it was all irrational, superstitious and totemic. And wasn’t bringing her mom back anyway. She was right. Wally was lonely, deluded and down to two-fourteen. Juan Martin had won an Open. It was time. Wally had to go.
Willy had never been in the service. Or the Boy Scouts. Or sleepaway camp. But like a lot of men, he revered the military, respected it and sometimes secretly saw himself on Special Operations missions in a black balaclava and a matching comm-set. And except for the food, the cramped conditions, the dirt and large bugs, the lack of plumbing, sleep and women and the nagging nearness of death or dismemberment, he would have signed up.
Instead, he kept inside himself a simple, innocent fondness for the armed forces’ resolve, precision, purpose and stud-cred. And read lots of books. He mapped out Wally’s U.S. Open campaign like an amphibious assault. It had a precise timeline, an identified mission and the real prospect of cramped quarters, bad grub and a general lack of excess resources. But as any seasoned operator will tell you, the plan is only a suggestion. God not only laughs at our plans, so does Benoit Mandelbrot.
In concept, the plan was tight and tidy. Hump it to New Haven, August 18 – 22 for the final round of the USTA qualifying. Billet with Willy’s friend, and New England Wilson Rep, Manny “Clone” Worze, at his house in Westville. Then exfil and Amtrak it to New York, deploy to the M
argincall’s apartment at 77th and Lexington, play the U.S. Open Qualifying Tournament August 23 – 26 and then de-camp, decompress, de rigeur and get ready for the Open, August 29 – September 11.
That was the plan.
They had netted enough from selling the books, the bakes and the GT, that after tuitions, mortgage payments and a cash tuffet, there was still pelf for plane tickets, meals and the three USTA entry fees. And not much else. It was therefore a precise plan by necessity. Chaos wasn’t in the budget.
Fortunately for order and parsimony, the New Haven objective was speedily achieved. Wally won his three matches against three other sectional winners. Each one a skilled player, but each one with a knockdown quirk. One hit his head so hard with his racquet after losing points, he concussed. The next took eighteen injury timeouts. For depression. And the other finalist bounced each service ball seventy-seven times for luck. Luckily it didn’t work.
The only New Haven hiccup, now literally behind them and almost out of their systems, was Clone’s cooking. Recently separated, Clone was gracious and hospitable, and did his best to make them comfortable. Wally and Willy shared his kid’s old room, where they fought the short, saggy twin beds for a few hours sleep each night. That was not a problem. But Clone’s kitchen was a kicker. In sixteen years of marriage, he’d never really cooked but had decided that a turkey dinner with trimmings for his guests would mean companionship, gemütlichkeit and gustatory chops. And turkey without all the trimmings was approved for the Wilson Regimen mess. It was a thoughtful gesture. How could he know about salmonella, Campylobacter bugs and the dangers of frosty fowls?
Turns out, he didn’t.
His numb bird made everyone, including Rod Laver the Dog, aggressively nauseous and pyrotechnically ill. Wally, weak as a New Year’s resolution, barely stood through the thousands of bounces in the final and Rod missed attending a match for the first time ever.
An army marches on its stomach, and theirs were trotting.
Zelda came to nurse them and then ferried them to the Margincall’s New York brownstone, overlooking the park. The food, the beds and the view all improved immediately. It really did take a village to play pro tennis. That, and a crate load of carried interest. They now had a cook, a maid, and an on-call driver courtesy of the Margincalls.
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