“All three of them?”
“Well I have a sense that we didn’t see the full arsenal today.”
“No, I think you did.”
Laughter. More sneezes.
“Do you lift?”
“Beers. Sometimes. But not when I’m training.”
Laughter.
“So, your power, just good form? Good mechanics?”
“You know, I tell all my students. Work on your serve.”
“Hard not to take you seriously there. So, looking ahead, next up for you is Florian Meyer. Any thoughts on him?’
“Not yet. Just focusing on today.”
“So are we. A lot of people will be. Congratulations again on the win. Best of luck on your next match.”
“Thank you.”
The crowd cheered.
Wally leaned back to the mic.
“Work on your serve!” he said.
They cheered again. As Cahill shook his hand, moved away and the cameras went dark, Wally sneezed like a banshee, closed his wayward eyelids and waved to the crowd. Fortunately, they cheered him loudly again. Because with no warning, he also coughed convulsively twice and flatulated simultaneously. It was the bodily-functions spectacular. Terrible and embarrassing, but it did settle a bet. Willy’d been wrong in fourth grade. You didn’t die if you did all three at once.
Thank god the interview was over. Wally left the court, wondering if this ever happened to Ghandi. Maybe Retchy’s dad had a product for this.
He was stopped by a throng and signed curved and flaccid surfaces for ten minutes. Some for juniors, but most for women. He could’ve stayed for another hour, but a referee shuttled him out to clear the court for the next match. Luckily, the body rattling trifecta had stopped for the moment.
When he stepped into the packed Player’s Lounge, everyone turned to look at him. There was more applause. Some of the doubles guys and the lower-ranked singles players shook his hand or patted him on the back. Willy was there too. Standing next to him, was a stocky, likeable man in a nice suit with a fresh haircut. He was smiling at Wally.
“Bro,” said Willy, introducing the man, “This is Swanee Reever from Nike.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Wally.
“Congratulations, Wally,” he said, as they shook.
“Thanks.”
He handed Wally his card.
“I liked what I saw today.”
“Great. Who’d you watch?”
“That’s good. I like that. I can tell you’re a modest guy. But you did it out there. The rough start. The comeback. The power. Man, it was a hero’s journey. I want to discuss your future. With us. With you. Tonight. Can we meet for dinner at seven at LG’s?”
“Of course. But can we make it six? I go to bed pretty early.”
“Six,” as though it had been his first choice. “Even more ideal. In fact, that may be something. Forget the hero’s journey. It could be, ‘Early to bed, early to kick butt. Just smash it!’ Or something like that. We’ll see you tonight.”
They shook again. A win and an offer. Oofta.
Then Swanee moved off to talk with Rafa and Uncle Tony.
Second, thought Wally, secretly pleased, but still enlightened.
Willy smiled.
“Nike, bro,” he said.
“Yeah, Nike.”
“Freakin’ Nike.”
“Nike.”
“Oh, yes, Nike.”
“Swanee Reever?”
“Yeah, I don’t know. But, Nike.”
“Nike.”
“That is the word. And the word is good. And I hope very green. We’ll see tonight.” He hugged Wally. “What a day, my brother. Name it and let’s go do it!”
“I have to pee.”
Willy was thinking of a response, when a thin man in a cheap suit with a bad haircut, a cheap briefcase and a nametag badge stepped up to them.
“I can help with that,” he offered.
“Excuse me,” said Wally.
Not extending his hand, he said his name. “R.M. Poke from the WADA. Today, Mr. Wilson, our interests align. You need to pee and I need a sample.”
“For what?” said Wally.
“Random drug test.”
Random drug test?
More players Wally recognized were coming his way to congratulate him. However, they saw Poke standing with him and either veered away, suddenly needed to tie their shower sandals or remembered they’d forgotten something somewhere else, and went to go get it.
Then Wally remembered something too. Jose at the match with the hats. And he remembered Jose’s postmatch hug-threat at Chamisal.
“A random drug test?” asked Wally.
“Yes. Tour policy,” said Poke.
Random, thought Wally, and eternal. With his serve records and ball-crushing power, and Jose’s relationship with the hats, this would go on longer than Wicked.
Dogs with a sock.
Thanks, Jose.
“But I’m not on the tour,” said Wally.
“You want the prize money at the end of this rainbow?” said Poke.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re on tour. And the tour needs to know how you do it.”
“Same as other guys, I imagine,” said Wally.
Just then, Agents Flint and Steel came up to him.
Do I have a sign on me?
What now?
“Could we have a moment?” said Flint.
“Sorry,” said Wally, “not right now.” Pointing to Poke. “He has to watch me pee.”
“Drug test, I hope,” said Flint.
“Yeah.”
“And you are?” said Poke.
“Classified,” said Flint. “And I need a quick word with Mr. Wilson.”
“Okay. But we have work to do.”
“I’ll be fast. We don’t tap the spigot.”
Flint, Steel and Wally separated themselves from Poke. Flint stood close and whispered to him.
“Those guys creep me out,” said Flint. “Collecting bodily fluids in a cup. That’s a career?”
“I think it’s a tube, actually.”
“Oh, that’s much better. They’re like little brothers running to tell on you to mommy.”
Wally smiled knowingly. “So, any good news?”
Flint shook his head. “No. I think they’ve gone to ground. Or Bomb Depot, or somewhere. As soon as we got to the desert, all the chatter stopped. It means they’re about to do something. All we can do now is wait.”
“Great update. You came here to tell me that?”
“Yes, and watch the matches.”
“So then, thanks, have fun,” said Wally.
“My pleasure. I owed you some debrief.”
“By the way, do you guys get any counseling on delivering news?”
“Of course. Right after stress positions and enhanced interrogation.”
“Quite the training,” said Wally.
“I could tell you stories,” said Flint. “Except I can’t.”
Flint checked his watch. “Okay, time for Ferrer on Stadium Two. But in light of recent events, I have to ask you one more thing.”
“What?”
“You’re not doping, are you?”
“No. I’m not doping.”
“Because it would explain some things.”
“I’m not doping,” repeated Wally. “I wouldn’t even know what to dope with.”
“Okay. Good,” said Flint. “Remember, say no to drugs. Catch up with you later.”
“Before the explosion?”
“Now that’s funny.”
Flint smiled a strange smile. Then he and Steel moved off to get autographs.
What a weird day. Even by recent standards. A reality-altering win and a Nike offer, then bad news and a drug test. The last two kind of flushed the spoils-of-victory punch bowl. Were his angel and the reality fairy running a tag team on him? A long con?
And then Wally stopped himself.
That wasn’t a very good att
itude. Where had his insta-benevolence gone? Did it vaporize at the first sign of adversity and flatus? Guess so. But if so, that wasn’t very enlightened. He wanted an illumination reboot. So he focused back on the positives. He’d scored a victory today. And he was getting a drug test not because he was lousy, but because he was so awesome and powerful. Which wasn’t totally true, but sort of. And he was having dinner at LG’s with the Nike guy. There. That was much better. Positive. Spiritual. Accepting.
Right. And also, just so he didn’t forget, he had just beaten the 27th ranked player in the world at the U.S. Open. So this wasn’t a weird day. Okay, it was a weird day. But this was also a glorious day. And he needed an equally glorious outlook. Okay, bring on the tube! Bring on the tests! Bring on some results! Maybe the tests could tell him how he did what he did and how he hit like he hit. Then it would be worth the trouble. And some of the hinkyness.
He glanced at Poke, looking at him like a jilted prom date.
It was a little creepy. But rules were rules. And he’d just joined The Firm.
Time to pee for The Man. Time to pee for Science. Time to pee for the prize money. And maybe the Lexus.
But it better be quick. Going spiritual was getting harder. In fact, standing up was getting harder. It had been a two-and-a-half hour match in the sun. He was exhausted.
Six more of these? He had to get quicker. And a little less hydrated.
TWENTY-TWO
For Wally, dinner that evening was a linen, crystal and cartside monastic. Not at all the hedonist high mass it should have been. LG’s Prime Steakhouse in La Quinta was a desert cathedral of beef and cab, but Wally couldn’t take communion. Swanee ordered a 1985 Caymus Special Selection, five sides, multiple appetizers and bone-in rib eyes for everyone. But Wally only worshipped at the well-worn outsoles of the harsh, demanding gods of pasta with chicken and sparkling water. So while Willy and Swanee led the congregation in meat and drink, Wally could only sit, watch and sin in his heart.
Swanee also brought along two young blond women of unspecified job descriptions. And he never introduced them. They didn’t drink. They didn’t talk. They just sat and watched. Were they companions? Relatives? Finnish mutes? Had they taken a vow? Or were they just genetically discreet? Whatever the case, they weren’t telling.
Throughout dinner, Wally stayed in his dogmatic slumber. Not the secularist he had been, his del Potro meal plan made him a zealot. And zealotry was a young man’s game. So was this life. Wally saw a number of players there, still sifting through the draw, drinking and eating with abandon. Or else with two or three girls of their own. Oh, to be young and carefree with a fast metabolism and Teflon recovery genes.
But who was he kidding? They could have that life and those girls. Wally was just happy to be awake for the six o’clock service. Let us now praise the nap, air conditioning and Ibuprofen he thought.
Fortunately, awake was all he needed to be. Swanee bounced the ball through the evening and was fully self-sustaining. The entrees gone, he was serving out a tour tale.
“So, he was number one or two at that point, and I’m just coming up. Doesn’t matter that it’s an early round match, I receive the full head treatment anyway. Just so there’s no mistaking who’s in charge. We’re just about to walk out on court when he stops me. And just stares at me for a moment. And then he says –” switching to the California version of an Eastern Bloc accent. “I will now go out and beat you six-two, six-one. That is all you need to know.” Back in his own voice. “And he did.”
Everyone laughed. The girls had lip-synched the last lines from memory.
Swanee smiled, poured more wine, took a purposefully long drink and laughed.
“But let me tell you about us. You see, we’re not what you think we are. We don’t sell shoes, shirts, shorts or even athletes.”
Which was strange, because Wally could swear he saw some of their clothes and athletes that day at the tournament
“No,” continued Swanee, with a dramatic pause, “we sell stories, narratives and fables.”
Then they’d definitely found the right guy for the job. Swanee was not only Mr. Myth, but also Mr. Quest and Mr. Metaphor. And he could hold his cab.
Swanee took another drink and leaned in to make his point.
“We don’t make racing bikes, but we signed Lance. We didn’t sell golf clubs, but we signed Tiger. We don’t make prosthetic legs, but we signed Oscar Pistorias. Why? Because their lives tell stories that are bigger than their sports.” He leaned back to let that sink in. Then, to Wally, “And so do you.”
“Thank you,” said Wally. “Hard to see the paradigm when you’re in the paradigm, I guess. I just try to hit a load of first serves in and keep my hat on.”
“Exactly,” said Swanee. “That’s why you are so coincident. So congruent.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Willy. “Planetary alignment and the mythic journey. Sirens and Krakens and sweet-smelling oil. But, Mr. Reever, myths don’t play tennis.”
“But, Free, tennis players can become myths,” said Swanee.
“If they look good,” said Willy.
Swanee smiled and swilled some more Caymus.
“Alright, Mr. Materialist, I see where your ship is sailing. So, here’s what we can do for you right now in the physical plane. Apparel. Shoes. Accessories. Whatever you need. As much as you need.”
“That’s very generous, but our dreams are heroic too,” said Willy. “We’re not just dreaming of swag, we need some sweetener.”
“Of course you do. What’s the journey without the reward?”
“Exactly. It’s a date and a handshake.”
Willy glanced at the girls. Their faces showed nothing. Victims of verbal downsizing?
“We want some sugar,” added Willy.
“And here’s how that happens,” said Swanee. “A little more journey. A little more reward. Your big man makes the quarterfinals, and we press play on the money machine. That sound a little sweeter?”
It sure did to Wally. In fact, it sounded perfect. He was running out of outfits, hated doing laundry, embraced the whole mythic quest pitch, felt he probably did need to prove his worth by reaching the quarters and wanted to sign. He opened his mouth to agree to the deal, but Willy opened his first. And countered.
“There are other pursuers,” said Willy.
This was sort of true. Willy had talked to three other companies. But none of them had talked currency yet either. Wally knew it. Swanee knew it. The girls probably knew it too. In fact, at tournament time, their waiter probably knew it.
“Cash keeps us here talking,” continued Willy.
“Of course,” said Swanee, blithely polite and angling sharply as always. “But heroes face trials. They face temptations.”
The two silent women nodded wordlessly. Swanee smiled at them.
“They sure do,” said Willy. “So we need a silver bullet to keep them at bay. Can you do that for us?”
“I would like to. You know I would. But if we start this out impetuously, what protects us if things get dodgy?”
“What protects you? Him,” said Willy, putting a big arm around Wally’s shoulder. “Wally Wilson, and his two-eighty nukes from the baseline. You’ve seen his power. He’s going to smoke those hams out there.”
“Of course he is,” said Swanee finishing his glass. “And, William, believe me, we want him to cure some meat. That’s why we’re all here. But I’m responsible to other parties too. I have to make the business case, and I’m short a few data points. Tell you what, let’s meet again Thursday. After his next win.”
“And what? Another second-rate dinner?”
“Naw. Better place. I’ll even pay this time.”
Swanee laughed.
“Fine. Your gold card,” said Willy. “Until then, I guess he wears whatever’s in the drawer and we both watch his price go up.”
“I can live with that,” said Swanee. “And after he’s flushed another contender, we can talk and we can write.
Speaking of which, anyone for more cab?”
“Sure,” said Willy. “Something drinkable this time?”
Swanee arched a brow. They both chortled like co-conspirators.
And were they ever.
Willy and Swanee were cut from the same bolt of moisture-wicking micro-fiber. Two schmoozers, both working a wink-and-a-nudge grift on each other. And loving it. It was fun to watch, fun to do and they knew it. They should have been brothers. Or an act. They were good at this. Swanee was a polished pro and Willy was the natural novice. And Willy wanted a strong rookie year. Word of this deal could net him a real player. One with a future. And a complete game. Wally wanted that for his brother. That and one steady girlfriend.
Willy and Swanee shucked on through a ‘91 Opus One, a 25 year-old scotch and a young, hot chocolate torte. But no one discussed the deal any more that night.
Outside, in the desert evening, the men shook hands and the women cheek-kissed Wally and Willy like they were clubhopping Russian billionaires, smiled invitingly and still said nothing. The brothers then made their way to the Rapide, and from five spaces over, Swanee stopped, wolf-whistled and crooned jealously to Willy.
“Why, my friend are you shaking us down?” he said, gesturing to the second-mortgage Aston. “For someone sugar-free, that is one sweet ride.”
“It’s not ours,” said Willy.
“Courtesy car?” said Swanee.
“Loaner.”
“Accident?”
“Bad judgment. He sold his ‘68 GT 500.”
“Oh, man, make me weep,” said Swanee, actually looking a little teary. “Why?”
“For a friend. To get a girl.”
Not a total lie, thought Wally.
“Did he get her?”
“Don’t know yet.”
To Wally, “But that car’s a magnet. You may still need that to attract something precious.”
“Already did,” said Wally.
Willy shrugged towards his brother. “Happily married, what can I say?”
“So, you’re the guy,” said Swanee with a cackle. “Well, glad to hear it. Wally Wilson, best of luck on Thursday.”
“Thanks.”
“Stay strong.”
“Can’t help it,” said Wally.
“We’ll be watching you. Go write your story.”
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