“And then write your ticket,” whispered Willy to his brother.
Swanee and the two linguistically economical girls walked to their midsized rental. One of them got in the driver’s seat. She was the designated driver. The other? Designated for something. She got in back with Swanee.
Like in any social order, everyone on tour had some job. You didn’t have to know what it was. Sometimes, you didn’t want to. They all seemed happy. And Wally was happy, and clued in partially. But clued in enough. He understood his place. He was the talent. Swanee was the money. And Willy was his manager. And his coach. And now on his payroll. All of which made him financially responsible for Willy and Willy financially responsible for him.
That was a new one for his brother. And for him.
Together they were the flying Wilson brothers. Codependent. Interdependent. Meshed up and stuck with each other. They both needed to do well in the desert. Especially Wally.
Wednesday.
After a short practice, an ice bath, a hot tub, a massage and another drug test, Wally stepped outside. Early in a tournament, the practice courts were awash in coaches and their players. There were the dads who claimed credit for their kids’ games, and the coaches who claimed the dads couldn’t. And there were legions of fit, young players crushing a million balls from every squint of the rectangle. Besides the tour show-offs, Wally recognized Wynn Boffo, the power game progenitor, Slice Crosscourt, the British angle doctor, and on the far court, Sven Galli, the eminent stroke specialist and star maker who famously announced, “Unless you’ve lost a Grand Slam final, I don’t even want to talk to you.”
On the path between courts, Wally fortuitously ran into the tall, thin and mysterious former pro, former coach and former industry executive, Deeplee Arqane. Arqane was a tour legend. Part Segura. Part Phil Jackson. Part Lama Surya Das. And all innuendo. Any meeting with Arqane was part revelation, part Koan and entirely ineffable. Until you thought it through later. And then it really didn’t make sense. Still, Wally was interested in what Arqane had to say. Which usually took just a minute and wasn’t much. Or was it?
They watched together in silence as one young, remarkably fit player hit thirty coast-to-coast ballistic groundies and then atomized a raggedly fed midcourt melon ball. Arqane wrapped a bony, 800 year-old hand around Wally’s shoulder and whispered, “He thinks he knows, but he does not know. But I know the secret. You do too.”
Arqane removed his hand, smiled knowingly, relit his e-cigarette and walked away.
“Thank you,” said Wally.
But Arqane was gone.
And that was it. He knew. He knew?
That was really it?
Swanee could have come up with that. Some meeting with the guru of the green and blue.
Though he tried to dismiss them, Arqane’s words had a weird force. That night, Wally went to bed at seven and dreamed of smoking monks crushing melons in the clouds.
Thursday.
Wally got up early. The dream was gone, but Arqane’s three sentences were still circling in his head. And for no good reason, he was feeling remarkably good. So maybe the old guy did know something. Or maybe he was a little touched. Maybe both.
At the Garden that morning, it all congealed – his power, some placement and a forceful, booming opponent intimidation. Wally floored Florian Meyer in a quick four-setter, smashing his own Tour records for fastest serve and groundstrokes, quickest serve games, most aces and most popped poly. His game was more precise and powerful in this round, and Meyer had no answers.
Score one for Arqane. Even if it had all been a goad to uncover talent and belief Wally already had, it didn’t matter. He’d taken down another tour pro, so whatever the real reason, it was best not to get too speculative. At the end of a match, it was still just hitting a ball with a stick over a three-foot woven obstacle. Players smarter than Wally had been tripped up by thinking too much on court. In fact, that’s often what tripped them up. Anyway, who really gave an extra duty ball? Arqane’s insight or Wally’s intuition; on a day like this, it didn’t matter. He’d just won his second round at the U.S. Smokin’ Open.
Not only that, but the stands had been packed and the autograph line was longer. After the match, the Posse had all texted him their good wishes too. Cindy, “You’ve gone deeper this year than Boris Becker.” Raj, “Was Meyer injured?” And Brett, “You’re still in it?” True friends. He hoped they’d come down for the final.
He hoped he’d be in it.
His winnings now were $31,000.00. One year’s tuition at the Atherton Academy. A couple months of Bay Area burn rate. How it would help him get Danielle back, he didn’t have a clue. But he had faith. He just needed to stay on the job.
That evening, Wally and Willy went to dinner with Swanee and the girls at Lantana at Grand Champions. This time, Willy brought some coin of the realm. Exo invites with guarantees. Davis Cup inquiries. And a big FILA offer. After Willy had finished making the case, Swanee beamed at him like a proud third grade math teacher. And by the butternut squash arancini, Wally had inked an endorsement. But not with Swanee. When it came to signing, the taciturn girls wouldn’t let Swanee near the pen. Or the paper. They wielded pen and power. And right then, the relationship made sense. They weren’t assistants or girlfriends or accessories to any fact. They were his handlers. Insurance for his risky personality. Gutter bumpers. Swanee was the show, but they were the biz.
Once the ink had dried, the final deal sung a lot like the first offer. Clothes throughout the tourni and marginally mas mazuma at the quarters. Willy and Swanee had done the dance, but neither side swayed the other very far. Clearly, Swanee could have made this number back on Tuesday, but he seemed to like to go to dinner and tell stories. Or else it was a tactic. To introduce doubt. To wear them down. To test their mettle. Fortunately, Willy rocked mettlesome even after twelve glasses of cab. It sure seemed that he was meant for this life, like a musician for casuals. Wally was not. He had pumpkined after the entrée.
Wally loved the sport of tennis, but tour life was a job. Play, rest, practice, play. He was barely keeping up. How did the pros do this for eleven months? It wasn’t only the relentless practice, match rotation and interviews, but the strict diet, the endless stretching, the sleep demands and the absolute egotism it took to be a top professional athlete. It was a perfect career for teenagers. And narcissists. And teenage narcissists. There was a disc one highlight from the redundancy collection if there ever was one.
Fans wondered why tennis pros seemed self-absorbed. It was because they were self-absorbed. The simple truth was, you were either self-absorbed and a winner or gracious, giving, multifaceted and broke. And no one was interested in a benevolent, enlightened first-rounder. The champions’ charities all attracted big money and they vacationed like Brahmans. Besides, after retirement, they’d have a good fifty or sixty years to become full human beings.
Wally would have to work on his self-absorption. But that was a young man’s game too.
Friday.
The doorbell rang at six am. Wally had read stories about early morning drug tests, and knew he had to open up. When he did, he got a surprise. Instead of seeing Poke’s familiar mug, there were two young women in terry cloth robes standing arm in arm at the door. With much nicer mugs. And other things.
All substantial improvements over Poke, he noted.
“Wally Wilson?” asked one of the girls.
“Yes?” said Wally.
“I’m Sloane,” said one.
“Hello,” said Wally.
“And I’m Loane,” said the other one.
“Hi.”
They might have been twins.
“We’re hand models.”
Maybe twin hand models.
“But we’ve found that hand modeling is so limiting,” said Sloane.
“So we’ve decided to expand our horizons,” said Loane.
They weren’t narco-techs. They definitely didn’t work for WADA. What was going on?
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Before he could answer them or figure it out, Sloane and Loane had dropped their robes and started in the door. As they moved his direction, he noticed that they were both comprehensively tan. And naked. And did he mention, naked? He felt a sting of nostalgia for the Margincall’s, and a nudge of desire for Danielle.
Where was Danielle anyway?
“What a nice offer,” said Wally. “But I’m expecting someone.”
“That’s okay. He –”
“Or she –”
“Can join us.”
“And join in.”
“That’s very generous of you. Of both of you. But I think I’ll pass,” said Wally, picking up the coconut-scented robes and handing them back to the bronzed bodacities.
“Have you considered a life drawing class?” he said.
Sloane pouted delightfully. “We don’t want to draw.”
“That’s boring,” said Loane.
“We want to see if you’ve got game.”
“Then, come to the matches tomorrow,” said Wally.
“We’ve already been there.”
“That’s why we’re here.”
“This really isn’t my kind of thing,” said Wally. “I’m a married tennis player.”
“Where’s your wife?”
He wished he knew.
“Away,” he said. “But I’m still married even when she’s not here.”
“Okay. It’s your choice.”
“But the players usually like hand models.”
“Or any models.”
“Or any hands.”
“I’m sure they do,” said Wally. “I’m sorry, girls. I’m just not interested.”
The models reluctantly re-robed.
“Have a nice day,” said Sloane.
“Yeah. Enjoy monkhood,” said Loane.
They sulkily retreated down the front walk.
What in the heck was that? Were they really hand models? They did have nice hands.
The models stopped and turned back to him. Wally stood there, staring, still confused. They parted their robes again and quickly flashed him.
“One last chance,” said Sloane.
Not the worst idea in the world, thought Wally. If he’d been twenty-five, single and had known either of them for more than four minutes.
“No, thanks,” said Wally.
“Okay,” said Sloane, closing her robe.
“Okay,” said Loane slowly belting hers.
“And, oh,” said Sloane, “we’ll tell Ashley you passed.”
They both smiled slyly and they were gone.
So Ashley was checking on his morals. What could you make of that?
Wally closed the front door, still nonplussed, aroused against his will, wishing he’d had this type of problem in high school, and very much wishing Danielle were there. And not just to explain things.
As he climbed back into bed, the doorbell rang again. Were the models back? Or was it maybe one of their friends, or a lingerie model backup squad? This wasn’t just a test, Ashley was giving an ethics final. He opened the door, amused at the thought and saw Poke, standing there, kit in hand. Wally’s smile dropped like the models’ robes.
“Mr. Poke?” said Wally. “It’s six am.”
“Six oh four, actually,” said Poke.
“Don’t you have other clients? Or a family?”
“I do,” said Poke. “Both. Unfortunately, this is a hands-on job.”
Wally crinkled his brow and hoped that Poke was speaking metaphorically.
“And you, Mr. Wilson,” he continued, “are in an elite group.”
“Fifty-three year-old tour players?”
“Yes, that’s one. But that’s not the one we’re interested in. We want to know all about two hundred fifty mile per hour servers, appearing suddenly and victoriously out of nowhere.”
“It wasn’t out of nowhere, exactly. I did go through qualifying.”
“Yes, we heard about that.”
So, it was Jose.
“May I come in?” said Poke.
“Where are my manners?” said Wally, gesturing expansively, “of course. It’s six oh four. My casa is your lavatory.”
The day had officially started. And it had certainly started officially. A test and then a test.
After Poke left, two confused students, just back from their Positano villa, had called Wally. They’d shown up at the Margincall’s court for their seven a.m., and wondered why he wasn’t there. Wally explained about the U.S. Open and said he’d be back the week of the 12th. Though they sounded disappointed, they wished him the best and asked him what the U.S. Open was.
What did they think it was?
He needed to get back to the court.
He went to La Quinta, got a back court and debuted a new Willy-drill – hitting serves to quarters placed in the boxes. He started strong, eating quarters like a parking meter. But that was the extent. He pulverized a few groundstrokes and volleys too, trying to convince himself he needed to practice his Paleo game of smash and crush. But the morning’s midterms had baked his bippy. The models got him thinking about romance and applied romance.
Where was his wife?
His mind had gone to mush, and he couldn’t concentrate on tennis. Fifteen minutes into things, he had all the focus of a second semester senior. So he ended the session by hitting a few lefty overheads and uncorked some backward serves at 120. Zelda immediately got it out onto FeltandSeam.com, and drove a herd of devoted 3.5’s and 4.0’s headlong to their clubs and courts with rolls of quarters, and dreams of weakside glory.
Wally left the court, showered and went to the Stadium to watch Djokovic, and managed to see nothing as Nole advanced on a Carlos Berlocq default. That hurt. There were only so many d’s to go around, and the number one seed got one? Dippyserenty. Bad luck. Beyond the many tennis truisms – tight for control, loose for power, the seventh game decides and don’t play a guy named Raoul in denim shorts for money – the seasoned pros will tell you that most every Grand Slam title run includes at least one injury default. It saved precious energy while your finals or semis opponent slogged through a long five-setter, and like the Shakespearean act four respite, it was the perfect pause before the big finish.
Added to which, Djokovic was the man. He was on a collision course with a Grand Slam. He didn’t need a default. If anything, he should have to play extra matches. Wally was the naïf. He did. He really did. In fact, at his age, he could use about four more walkovers at this point.
Wally scanned some other results. The seeds were still planted firmly in the top half, but Retchy was tilling some earth. He’d just upset the steady veteran, Juan Carlos Ferrero – no relation to Juan Carlos or Juan David from the qualifier – and was on to the third round. This would have been big news in any other year, but not in 2011. There was just no give in the narrative. The media bandwidth was stretched like gym club spandex in early January, and Wally and the Big Four got all the ink and most of the pixels. A rampaging teenage Andorran whippet didn’t command the editorial pull of a middle-aged rookie. Retchy was a once-in-a-decade talent, but Wally was a once-in-a-decade story.
The press felt the pull, and Wally made them curious. Who was he? Where’d he come from? How did he get the power? It was intriguing. It was provocative. It was suspicious. Like Barry Bonds, or Peter Parker or Goodie Proctor. He was so compelling, he was almost fictional. Added to which, fans loved the fireworks and they loved him because he had fun. On the B Side, the players wanted him punked. Wally was an embarrassment of leads and copy.
There were so many angles to the Wally story, it would have numbed a geometer. And it all fed the frenzy. Wally was the new media collectible. A felt-blasting Giga pet. Every day some new source sourced him anew. Everyone wanted a piece of him. And his story. Willy even brought him a film offer. Garth Vader, the Oscar-winning documentary director of the gritty, heartfelt biopic, Tempus Fugit About It, that one critic called, “Blunt force drama to the head,” the story of a Brook
lyn wiseguy turned criterium champ, turned Latin teacher and cicerone, was moving into features and he wanted to option his life. Wally wanted to option his life too. But he had no choice at the moment. It was greenlit as it was. No time to check messages in traffic. It was late in the production. The tournament was moving on to the blockbuster midpoint.
Labor Day weekend was coming up and after it, half the field would be gone. By Monday, all the Round-of-16 matches in both draws would be completed and the quarterfinals set. Wally wanted to be there.
He had two rounds to win first. Against two tough opponents. One fleet, the other crushing.
Saturday.
Wally’s third round was in the Stadium against the tireless Spaniard, David Ferrer. No relation to the other guys Wally’d played either. A Ferrer match could be extra-grueling given Ferrer’s relentless pace of play and ability and interest in chasing down every ball and recovering to hit a thousand more if necessary. But there was gruel delay. The match before them was a seesaw five-setter and Wally and Ferrer had had to gear up, stand down and gear up again. Twice. All told, they began a full two extra hours after go time. Wally’d seen shorter bass solos.
When the solid Spaniard and the concussive Californiard finally took Stadium court, it was late afternoon, hot and all het up. The fans were hyped and so was Wally. Just entering the Stadium, his adrenaline shot up like early Google shares. The place was huge, high and imposing. And that was just the lower sections. All sixteen thousand seats looked filled and American and Spanish flags dotted every corner and the middle. Wally had been to a tournament here before, but the raw awe of the crowd towering over him and the outsized side and back spill of the court gave a gravitas to the place that you just didn’t sense as a spectator.
And that was before the surprise.
As Wally entered from the southwest corner, in his bag-creased separates and shoes as new as Kobe’s, he waved to the crowd and looked across at the player’s box, expecting to see Willy and Rod. Instead, sitting with them and smiling at him were Addie, Deuce, Dirk, Sophie and Ashley. He did a dry-mouthed spit-take. They all waved and smiled. Addie and Deuce unfurled a large carbon fiber banner that said, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY”. Wally could barely control his emotions. And he wasn’t even sure exactly what they were. Ashley had flown them all down for the weekend, to celebrate his birthday.
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