“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Willy took the iPad back. He was about to sign off, but stopped himself. There, on screen, in place of Deuce was Sophie.
Where did she come from?
But there she was. Dressed in very short jean shorts and a white peasant top, sucking on an ice cube. Looking great. And looking right into his soul.
“Hi, Free.”
“Hi!”
“Hey, just wanted to remind you of what was happening at home. You know, it’s pretty hot here.”
Willy gulped. “Here too. But not as hot as that.”
“Can’t wait to see you again.”
The ice cube dropped down her blouse.
“Oops.” A timer went off in the kitchen. “Oh, that’s my psychological clock. Gotta go.”
Willy blinked hard and looked again. Had he really had just had the conversation?
“Soph?” he said.
But Sophie wasn’t there. Deuce was. Staring at him. Waiting for him to hang up.
“Who were you talking to?” said Deuce.
“Hey, Deuce. Sorry,” said Willy. “I thought I saw something.”
“It seemed like it. Well, bye, Uncle Willy. Oh, and, Sophie says hi.” Then, confidentially, “And, dude, thanks. I just never get tired of having her drive me.”
Sophie, in short jean shorts and a white peasant top, passed by in the background. “Deuce! Gotta go.”
“Well then, gotta go.”
He winked once and he was out.
Willy let go of Wally’s legs. “You’re as stretched as a mature gentleman can be. And twice as sweaty. Time to hit the showers.”
“Already?” Wally’s face uncontorted.
“Yes, we’re done.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Bro?”
“Yeah?”
“I thought I just saw Sophie.”
“Here?”
“No. On the iPad. You didn’t?”
“I didn’t.”
“Okay. Maybe I didn’t either. Maybe it just needs an update.”
“Or maybe it’s the heat,” said Wally. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Of course,” said Willy, still shaken, but trying to sound normal. “At the Open with my bro. What could be better? I’ll go get a court for tomorrow and pick up your swag. Meet you in the locker room in ten.”
He turned to go.
“Maybe a cold towel for you,” said Wally.
“Maybe a cold beer,” said Willy.
“Or a beer.”
“Or two.”
“Or two.”
Willy left, looking much happier.
That did sound good, thought Wally.
Soon enough. Just two weeks to go.
But right now, Wally just needed to cool down. He was stretched, overheated and spent, and he couldn’t quite get up yet. So he stayed put, took a long moment and reviewed it all so far.
So far, so good, actually. He almost felt flexible. He almost felt ready. He almost felt calm. He almost couldn’t believe it.
I’m in the U.S. Open. The best in the world are here. I’ve had an official practice. I’m going to shower in the players’ locker room. I’m actually doing this and I feel fine. Either it hasn’t hit me yet or I’m dealing with all of this pretty well. It’s going to be okay. I can do this.
That was then.
TWENTY-ONE
Ten fifty-six Tuesday morning.
Zippy Slam, day two, session one. Court Six. Wally Wilson v. Olivier Rochus.
Wally was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life. He was back in the locker room for his third pee in the last ten minutes, and he was certain he’d need to go again. Very soon. He knew hydration was good, but right then he could think of only two words. Portion control. Would that even help? Or was it just another jitter pee? Either way, he was due on Court Six in four ticks.
He did his business quickly and ran to the player’s entrance just as he was being announced. Since he had no pro or amateur resume, it was a quick introduction. He walked in to a polite, expectant applause and sat down. The Rochus introduction took much longer, and gave him time to stop and feel his heart booming against his temples, filling up his skull, then sinking to his insoles.
What was he doing here? This was the U.S. Open. Real pros played here. They even took it seriously. He was a teaching pro. A really shaky teaching pro.
Where had the almost calm gone? Or the confidence in his own ability? And was there still time to default semi-gracefully? He sat paralyzed with fear, doubt and indecision. And one mean eye twitch.
Court Six was one of the Tennis Garden’s five smaller show courts. It had stands running its length on both sides, an intimate setting where every move you made was scrutinized. The seats were filled with eager, expectant U.S. Open fans, and a thatch of chunky guys who usually watched NASCAR. But whatever their preferences, they were here. At the U.S. Open! Here to watch him. They had even clapped for him when he entered the court.
He almost threw up.
And he needed to pee again.
The situation was extremely fluid. And going liquid. His nerves were leaking out everywhere. He carefully stowed his two racquet bags, adjusted his carbon fiber hat, smiled tensely and promptly knocked over his water and sports drinks. An alert ball person ran out with a towel, wiped the court dry, recycled the bottles and liquefied Wally a-fresh. Great start. Things could only get easier. And tidier.
Rochus came in and it was match time.
Wally stepped out on the court to more applause. He was a jangled mess, and the adulation made it worse. What were they cheering for exactly? His age? His hat? The ten-buck tickets? They kept clapping. What was the deal? Were his shorts down? Or not covering stuff? He had hurried that last visit. He quickly looked down and checked his lower half. Shorts were hitched. Parts were stowed. Good. You never knew what you might forget at a time like this. So that wasn’t it. Maybe the crowd was just excited. Or maybe they really liked his opponent.
The warm-up began. And it was warm. Eighty-seven degrees. By noon, it’d be almost a hundred. A mature, thirty-five year-old associate from the U.S. Open ball person corps tossed out the bright yellow Wilson U.S. Open balls and he and Rochus began to rally. Or tried to. Wally knew that excitement amplified his condition. And this was exciting. And he was amplified. And he thought, well, Brett, you try it. He was playing in the U.S. Open. In a place it had never been. With a bargain crowd expecting Tiffany tennis. Could he deliver? And more to the point, could he remember how to swing a racquet? His mind froze. His pulse did a buzz roll. His limbs went Whac-A-Mole. He swung the racquet, but it could have aired a rug. He couldn’t keep a ball in the court, groundstroke or volley. Adrenalized, scared and awed, he suddenly couldn’t think of any reason why he was on court with the twenty-seventh ranked player in the world. He was a teaching pro. He was fifty-three. What had Willy convinced him to do?
He could barely feel his hands or feet or remember his own name.
His legs shook. His stomach churned.
And he still had to pee.
This was textbook fight or flight and he wanted to fly. Or micturate. But he couldn’t do either right then. He was here to play and he always finished the task. But first he had to start it. And this wasn’t a good start.
The pre-match five minutes felt like twenty. He just kept trying to find the court with his shots. And just kept launching them. Fortunately, the crowd was talking, settling in and drinking. And not really watching. Yet. Rochus, the seasoned pro, remained calm, hit whatever shots he could reach and just went with it. For the pros, these few minutes before a match were largely ceremonial anyway. They just tried to shake it out and break a sweat. Rochus looked relaxed, Belgian and confident. And why wouldn’t he be? His opponent was shelling the bleachers. Wally had no idea how he looked. Ridiculous? Out of place? Apocalyptic?
They took serves and then it was time to start.
Wally’s brain blanked. He was
thrown into a world with no past, no future and no present. He even forgot he had to pee. He was focused only on not making a fool of himself. Or filling his pants. He hoped to at least control the second one.
Rochus had won the pre-match coin toss and had elected to receive. A common move in the pros. Rochus was figuring on an early break and some time to work his way into the match. Wally obliged immediately. Firing it up with more NOS than usual, he peppered his first eight serves into the back wall and that was the last thing he remembered for a while. After that, it all ran together. Serves. Returns. End switches. Challenges. Sports drinks. Shirt changes. Wally even forgot to stand between games or talk to his brother. He wits were still in his sneakers. He was mindless, hitting on instinct. Running aimlessly. And none of it was working. Rochus didn’t hit hard, but he served to Wally’s body, ran down everything and let Wally’s teenage driver recklessness and power rack up the errors.
The first moment of mental clarity came at the end of the second set sit down. It seemed like it had only been two minutes and Wally was already behind two sets to love, 1 – 6, 2 – 6. He felt like he’d just awakened in the middle of a David Lynch. Time was warped and the score blew. How long had it actually taken? He checked the scoreboard clock. Elapsed time, fifty-five minutes. And the desert temperature, ninety-seven and climbing. His sweat had sweat. He’d missed it mentally, but it had clearly been hot and fast.
He had gotten games, but that was cold comfort. He wasn’t trying for Best Geriatric Flog. He was here to win. Who cared if this guy was top-thirty? He had to beat him. He had the power to do it. At the moment, though, he was one slim set away from a first-round loss. And that much further from Danielle.
Time to slow this train down.
He concentrated on his breathing. Four counts in. Hold for four counts. Exhale for four counts. It all worked great except the inhaling, holding it and exhaling it parts. He averaged about two counts per try, but it helped. A little. Then he tried to pick out faces in the stands. He saw Willy and Zelda and Rod in his players’ seats. He saw Rochus’ coach and his girlfriend. He saw Jose Pusherr, his final’s opponent from the Chamisal sectionals, sitting close and laughing with some older USTA guys in straw hats. Wally liked their hats.
The diversions helped. So did his renewed shock and yaw delivery. Wally tapped into his inner ordinance and dished up some singeing firsts at two-forty, pulverized some groundies and notched the first game. Two minutes of Wally-time later, he’d won the third set 6 – 3, and the fourth 6 – 4. As he sat down before the fifth set, he remembered where he was and that he still had to go. Bad. He notified the umpire and went off to the locker room, accompanied by an official. When he came back, he noticed the straw hats staring at him and Jose with their ears, talking and gesturing.
That’s right, he thought as he looked at them, today you’re gonna see an upset!
If I don’t pass out, seize up or start to think about where I am right now.
But he didn’t do any of that. He was feeling confident now and he actually began to find his game. The break had helped. He was coping with the heat. Hydration was good. Even though you always had to go. Drawing into a straight of aces to start the fifth, he began to dial up his range off the bounce as well. He was less jumpy; more focused and started imposing his scorched Deco Turf strategy. He stood up between changeovers, talked to Willy, petted Rod and got the fans involved. They cheered for everything he did after that. He began to chill out and power up.
Deuce had been quant-on too. Rationality returned and Wally played to the plan. He pounded it up the middle to Rochus, negated his small guy speed and atomized some hanging mid-court sitters. He closed the fifth out, 6 – 1, and there he was at the net shaking hands with Rochus. The winner.
Unbelievable!
He had won a round in the U.S. Open! He’d found a way to do it. What a teaching pro fantasy! He had beaten a professional tennis player. In bigtime heat. At fifty-three with two kids. And he was into the second round. The whole world, its colors, smells and sounds all seemed to change for him. This was truly a moment bathed in sweet-scented radiance. In an instant, reality looked new, halogen lit and very much improved. He sat in his chair, a towel over his head, privately mainlining the blissful essence of a beautiful, reborn universe. One that was interconnected in all ways and sublime in the extreme. And, oh so cool. Even at a hundred and six degrees in the shade.
He saw it all clearly too. Everything. Willy was a prescient genius and this day was lyrical perfection. Everyone was beautiful. Their children were beautiful. Their pets were beautiful. The world was one glowing eminence. Peace and harmony reigned and abided. He loved everyone. All men were brothers.
They announced his name over the court PA system, and the crowd cheered and whooped. The applause was sustained. It lasted for minutes. It was almost embarrassing, if it hadn’t been so Timberlake. But it was meant to be, and after it had been and been, another layer of the insight cake forked itself over to Wally. Not only did peace abide, but he’d just won $19.000.00! Not bad for a New Age novitiate.
And with the win, he was also one Wally-logic step closer to Danielle.
This was spiritual overspill.
He looked around and saw that the small stands were now overflowing with walk-ins who must have caught the buzz and migrated from other courts. He felt love for all the late arrivals too. People were pointing at him and it seemed that everyone was taking his picture. An ESPN camera crew had dropped in and filmed the end of the match. Rochus packed up and left to grateful applause for his effort. He loved Rochus too.
A young female volunteer in khakis and a polo shirt brought Wally three new tennis balls and a Sharpie. She told him to sign them and hit them as far as he could up into the stands for crowd-catcher momentos. But, of course. He’d seen TV. Souvenirs for the stands. No problem. He could think of nothing he wanted to do more in that moment. He loved the people in the stands.
Wally knew he’d blast the balls to the Hyatt if he didn’t hit them high. So, he drove the three straight up about a hundred and fifty feet to three corners of the stands. They dropped into waiting hands. More applause.
You’re welcome, beautiful tennis fans!
Darren Cahill had rushed over from the Stadium Court and set up near the net with a mic and a cameraman. Another young volunteer ushered Wally back out for an impromptu TV interview.
On ESPN.
With Darren Cahill.
Player.
Former Coach of Andre Agassi.
Announcer Who Actually Knew What He Was Talking About.
Pleasing Aussie accent.
Floating on a perfumed mist made of acceptance, benevolence and a first round win, Wally glided out beneficently and humbly to the middle of the court. He wasn’t anxious. He was expansive and serene and probably more than a little heat-stroked.
More applause.
Rod Laver the Dog ran out to join him.
The applause increased. The mood was contagious. They loved him. They loved his pet too. He loved them too. There was love all over the place.
Then his eyes started twitching and he began to sneeze.
Darren Cahill smiled and warmly motioned him over. The little red lights were on. The cameras were live. But it just didn’t matter that millions of people were watching him. He had a message of kindness and grace and magnanimity. If he could just steady his lids and get a couple tissues. He took his place and smiled infectiously.
At six-six, Wally loomed over Cahill. But in a kind and thoughtful way, he felt. Everything was right and fine and photogenic. The now impossibly heightened vortexiness of this sublime scene dwarfed Sedona, Nepal and even Roland Garros.
“Wally Wilson, congratulations!” said Cahill.
The crowd cheered their approval.
“Thank you,” said Wally, generously. His eyes batting uncontrollably like a silent film ingénue.
Looking at Rod, Cahill said, “Who’s this?”
“Rod Laver,” said
Wally, letting out a torrent of sneezes.
“Bless you,” said Cahill. “Rod Laver, huh? An Australian Cattle dog?”
“Right,” sniffed Wally.
“And a south paw?”
“Of course.”
Rod Laver the Dog snuggled up to Wally’s large feet.
“Good dog,” said Cahill.
The crowd clapped. Wally sneezed a few more times.
“You okay?”
“Allergies, I guess,” said Wally, his lids flapping quickly.
“We didn’t have a crew here for most of this match, but we should have. How does it feel to win your first U.S. Open match, your first pro match, in fact, at fifty-three?”
“Spiritual. Unbelievable. Hot.”
More applause.
A female voice from the crowd. “You are hot!”
Laughter.
“You all are too,” said Wally, not really knowing what he meant, but thinking it flowed nicely into the moment. All the while trying to will the spirituality back and the sneezing away.
Applause. He sneezed two more times.
Cahill looked up and smiled. “I had to study up on you quickly. Is this right? Until three months ago, you were a teaching pro in San Francisco?”
“I was. In Atherton, actually.”
A female voice shouted out, “Take me there!”
The crowd laughed again.
“So, from local qualifying to a main draw U.S. Open win. That’s fantastic. What’s next?”
“A nap.”
The crowd laughed.
“And maybe some Benadryl.” He sneezed four times.
“Good idea. And then?”
“Sleep.”
Laughter.
“So, let me ask what’s on everyone’s mind.”
A woman’s voice from the stands. “Will you come home with me?”
“Okay, that’s on some people’s minds,” said Cahill.
Laughter.
Cahill continued. “But I think what we all want to know is, where did you get that serve? Some of them were clocked at over two-fifty. And not kilometers, either.”
“Loose wrist. Good contact.”
“I’ll say. But you have some frightening power on all your strokes.”
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