That’s all it took. Somewhere in his nervous system, someone pushed the red button.
His game went buzz saw and he tore through Ferrer in a three quick, decisive sets. Before he knew exactly what he’d done, it was done. His collectable winnings now were $55,000.00 and he was safely through to the fourth round.
But he wasn’t safely out of the Stadium. Now came the downside of the victory – trying to hold it all in while his body revolted. Whatever had happened to him to give him this power not only had side effects, it had front and back effects too. As Willy had noted, “With great power, comes great gastrointestinal distress.”
But Brad Gilbert saved the day. After the ubiquitous twin hand models, Sloane and Loane, brought in a three-foot wide birthday cake, Brad came out and helped the crowd sing “Happy Birthday.” The song was spirited and raucous and perfectly covered up Wally’s coughing, sneezing and rump whistles.
That was fortunate.
Then Gilbert turned the microphone on Wally.
Blessedly, his body was quiet.
“Happy fifty-four, big guy,” said Brad.
“Thank you,” said Wally.
“We don’t get a chance to say that much out here.”
“First time for me too,” said Wally.
The crowd laughed.
“Congratulations on the win.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s been a while since a new American player has stepped up and gone this far. How does it feel?”
“Like I entered a parallel dimension.”
“I think that echoes what a lot of the other players are thinking.”
More cheers.
“You play another American, Andy Roddick on Monday. Any thoughts on that?”
“None that’ll help me,” said Wally.
The crowd laughed again.
“Andy’s a great champion. I hope I get a few in.”
Gilbert turned to the player’s box, “I’ll let you go join your family. Happy Birthday, Wally Wilson. Good luck on Monday.”
“Thank you,” said Wally. Then with a wave to the crowd, “work on your serve.”
That match and the birthday cake were turning points for Wally-mania. Casual TV viewership grew. American flags sold out in the valley. By evening, you could buy a “Work On Your Serve’” t-shirt at any kiosk. Red Numbers was living the dream. His online status was gloat.
The Posse text-praised Wally to the heights. “Isn’t there an age limit?” “Are they scared of hurting you?” “You’re only fifty-four?” He was appointment TV as long as this lasted.
On his way out of the Stadium, he signed thirty minutes of autographs and received phone numbers, photos and personal items from women fans. Pretty fly for an old guy. He still didn’t understand why the skinny suits couldn’t believe he had this appeal. Fifty-four could be living large, not living assisted. But the old wisdom remained and controlled. Nadal and Tipsarevic had just inked underwear modeling contracts, and Wally was being courted by Depends. He had bumped up against the drab grey ceiling of demographic denial. And all he wanted was just one really hip, young sponsor. Or at the very least, something for people why still had their own teeth. Instead, PoliGrip and Flomax both upped their offers. He refused. He had some definite problems, but he still didn’t need any help with those things.
As if to prove the point, Poke stopped him after the postmatch for the daily whiz kit. For the second time that day. What was their definition of random, anyway? Or daily? Did Poke have a thing for him? This was all just a little too hands-on.
But that’s what you get, thought Wally. Bomb ‘em in at two-eighty and pretty soon, everybody notices. And then they want to stop you.
He’d gotten better. And faster. Unearthly sound. Unreturnable power. Quick, violent action. Michael Bay does the ATP. His reputation grew and nobody wanted to play him. If you won, you were a bully. If you lost, you were a casualty destined to end up as video filler for future U.S. Open rain delays. It was hard to know what to do against him. Even for the best. At first, you felt sorry for him. He was that guy at the club with two knee braces, an ice pack and the Costco Advil. He looked old and out of place on center court, like an accessory rep or somebody’s dad. Then, once he started hitting, it was like tying your shoe under a Saturn rocket.
To take his mind off of another obligatory pee, he idly wondered if he should have been a playing pro. But decided that was way out of context. Despite Arqane’s oblique endorsement, he would probably be nothing without the gift. And truly hoped he never had to find out.
Brett’s words came back to him, and for a brief moment, he saw another perspective. Despite turning his life, work, marriage and family upside-down, sideways and inside-out, once you got past that, it was pretty cool.
It was a gift. Happy Birthday.
Sunday.
The surprise wasn’t finished.
Thanks to Ashley, Roger Federer, Pete Sampras and Rod Laver joined them that night for a birthday dinner. What an evening. Ashley really liked birthdays. Not only did the trio have forty-one grand slams, seven Davis Cups and an Olympic gold between them. Not only were they the three greatest male players of the Open Era. Not only did they each bring Wally an autographed racquet. They also asked him for serve tips. What would he do for his sixtieth? Or any birthday after this?
Roy Yamaguchi cooked. Lance Burton did close-up and Wally could barely speak. He was as touched as a Raiders fan. Membership might have it privileges, but with Ashley, every day was game seven floor seats.
Who needed FaceBook friends?
After a few toasts, came the presents. Deuce gave him a beer. For after. Addie and Dirk brought him a red, white and blue carbon fiber hat. The Posse sent gifts too. A knee brace. An elbow band. Some orthopedic socks. And a huge jock strap. The illustrious guests sang “Happy Birthday” and Sampras said, “Have they asked you about retirement yet?”
As they were leaving, Fed asked Wally to hit on Wednesday. Pete invited him for golf at the Quarry. And Laver stayed and partnered with Ashley for a few hands of bridge against Wally and Lance Burton, although no one would let Lance deal. It didn’t seem that there was anything Ashley couldn’t do or cause to be done. But, after all, someone had to be president in 2032. Maybe she could form her own party, the Party Party.
They were outside saying goodnight to Rod Laver, when another Australian Shepard ran out of the yard next door, saw Rod Laver the Dog and pulled up short in front of the house like a cartoon dog. A young woman with a tennis tan and no shoes hobbled out of her house, saw who was in the driveway with her dog, and pulled up like a cartoon character too.
“Oh, my god, it’s you,” she said.
Laver smiled knowingly.
“Stay there. Please. I’ll be right back.” She put a leash on the impetuous pooch and gently cajoled her. “C’mon, Margaret Court Smith.”
She led the dog back to her yard.
“Margaret Court Smith?” said Wally.
“I know her,” said Laver.
Where did she come from? All the fractional ownership houses looked the same here. The white adobe, the tile roofs, the plantation shutters. And that was the idea. You were guaranteed one when you stayed, but it might not be the one you had last time. Yet you’d be equally comfortable in all of them. Silas Margincall had bought all the fractions and owned his and always stayed in the same one, but there was no telling who the fraction next door was that week. Or if there’d be a neighbor. Especially offseason. And this house next door had looked empty. Clearly, someone was there. With a dog. An Aussie, even. Named after a famous tennis player. What were the odds? Seriously.
The young woman hobbled back out to them, carrying a full signing array.
“This is so exciting,” she said, handing Wally a Sharpie. “Do you mind?”
Laver looked puzzled.
“I think you want him,” said Wally, pointing to the great Aussie.
“No. I want you. You’re Wally Wilson, right?”
&n
bsp; “Yeah.”
“I want your autograph. I’m sorry. I don’t know who he is.”
Wally and Rod Laver smiled at each other.
As Wally got to work, three additional silver Margincall Rapides pulled up in front of the house. A hunky, male-model, SEAL driver got out of each one with a sign. The lead Rapide was for Laver, the other two for Yamaguchi and Burton.
“I think I’ll say goodnight,” said Laver. “Happy Birthday, Wally. Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Wally.
Rod Laver had called him Wally.
After he had driven off, Wally signed six t-shirts, three caps, a sports bra and a dog dish.
“Thank you,” said the girl. “This is such an honor. You’re a hero of mine. My name’s Tess.”
“Nice to meet you, Tess,” said Wally. “If I may ask, what happened to your leg?”
“Tore my ACL five times. Had a hip replaced.”
“I’m sorry,” said Wally.
“Me too. I was on tour for a year. Thought I had a chance. Didn’t work out. Just here to watch this one. You know, it’s weird, that cute old red-haired guy did look kind of familiar. Did he play?”
Wally laughed at youth, just a little. “Back in the day,” he said.
“Your day?”
“Even earlier.”
“There was tennis then?”
The girl went back in her house.
Wally laughed at age, just a little, and headed up the walk. Roy Yamaguchi and Lance Burton both came out to the waiting cars. Wally thanked them and saw them off. As he opened the front door, he was almost body-checked as Willy, Zelda and Sophie skipped out of the house to the familiar, loaner Rapide. They’d gone into conference right after cake, but everything looked congenial now.
“There was a little group tension going on,” said Willy, “but we worked it out. We’ve decided that we’re all going to date. Together.”
Was that what it sounded like? What a really bad idea.
Willy caught Wally’s visible dubiety. “Don’t furl the brow, bro. We’ve all decided it’s for the best. And it could be pretty fun.”
“Sure,” said Wally, not convinced at all.
Everyone has fun, he thought, except for the third wheel. In this case, Zelda. Right now, she was in the back seat. First set to Sophie.
He went to say thank you to Ashley, but she was busy working on Flint’s S-1. Wally ambled down to his wing of the house, his head still whirring with serendipity, gratitude and slack-jawed amazement.
That night, before bed, he tore up his bucket list.
Monday.
Labor Day.
A round-of-16 night match. In the Stadium. On ESPN 2. Against Andy Roddick. Finally Wally was out of the triple-digit glare. It was a picturesque summer evening with the temperature at eighty degrees as the long September sun began to shade color from the Santa Rosa mountains. Nice conditions for a big weekend match.
The press had played up the similarities between Roddick and Wally, but Wally couldn’t see them. In his mind, Roddick was a superior, generation-defining talent and he was just a big guy with a hard serve. But hyperbole had set up a tent in the desert and they’d cram everything under it they could. This was a made-for-television showdown. Two Americans at the American Open in prime time on an American holiday.
What followed was a powerful, nationally-televised, nationalist contest and an occasionally a tense struggle, but Wally employed Deuces’ rigorous Quant-itative theory, “Hit really hard and don’t think about it,” and after about an hour and forty-five minutes, Wally’d beaten Roddick two, three and five and was now $110,000.00 to the good, less Willy’s commission and other expenses.
The sun was down. The stars were out. The crowd was reveling. And Wally was into the quarters.
After the match, Wally moved and expelled to BTO’s “Taking Care Of Business”. Not the most original choice, but achingly appropriate. And when it was over, Wally was fit for polite company. And the tennis media.
In the pressroom, it was a coronation. Not more than a question or two about retirement.
By the time he had finished the postmatch, his kids were back in Menlo Park and Ashley was probably on the phone to the Kremlin about her history paper. He missed them again already. Not only that, but he missed his life, he missed his wife and he missed not having emotions. He felt like a Super Bowl Clydesdale ad. He needed to stay in the game for one more week and control the weepy feelings.
That wasn’t easy. In fact, the whole adventure to this point, when considered calmly was highly unlikely.
Was this really happening? Was he really in the quarterfinals? Was he really living the life of a tennis star at 163? Had he really bid three no-trump against Rod Laver?
Heady times.
As David Byrne said at that Sunday night concert, “How did I get here?”
Then his phone rang.
It was the doping police. Poke’s homies.
He could hear the punchbowl flushing again.
His six a.m. Wednesday drug test showed positive for a banned blend. Wally was being put on notice by the Tour. He could keep playing but his results and prize money would be held up until the test was confirmed or negated by the backup results.
That explained a whole lot and didn’t explain anything. Where would he get steroids? Had he been ‘roid rufied? And what should he do now?
Would Nike stand by him like they stood by Tiger?
And more importantly, who was doing this to him? Jose didn’t have this much bite.
But it wasn’t Jose. He was just a vindictive nutball. It was the game. Tennis was a modern, big money sport. With an image to protect, and a Medusa’s raft of interested parties. Even the factions had factions. There was enough bite to go around for a pit bull convention. It was only a question of who got bit. Fans believed there were drugs at work at some level, and the Tour needed to look proactive. But with no major collars, they’d begun to look weak, deceived and duplicitous. And that was MLB territory. Without a few convictions or confessions, this could be tennis’ PED decade with a bullet. It was about time someone did the time. Better to find a newcomer and use him as an example of the nasty element trying to make inroads than try to chase down some star with a private lab’s brew three steps ahead of the tests. The locker room police and their CI’s had put a BOLO out on Wally and the net was tightening. Now he knew how those collateral bycatch felt. Helpless. Slimed in. And smelling nothing but fish around them.
Wally had just taken a breath after that gut punch when a representative for the Tour called. They wanted to test his racquets. For “possible unauthorized material technological assistance.” Like what, self-guiding strings? Power enhanced microfibers? A comm link to Ivan Lendl? Jeez, you hit a few serves at 300 and everyone gets suspicious. This was the unintended consequence of announcers blathering on about equipment making the modern game. These dorks could see a guy seven-foot-seven blast a forehand and tell the audience it was because he strung with poly.
So drugs and gear? This was the pariah smorgasbord, and he was the only item on the menu. Very few players used the exact racquet they endorsed. Some repainted their old frames with the new graphics. No one ever let you look in their racquet bag. Wally never thought they were hiding spiked sticks. He sure wasn’t.
This was bad, a squeeze double play that could get him thrown out. This really skewed the pooch, and imperiled his personal economic recovery and reinvestment act. But it was what it was and there wasn’t time to worry about it. At the moment, Wally had a much bigger, more immediate problem. One that’d he’d been thinking about since the last win. One as old as the game itself.
He was about to play a lefty.
TWENTY-THREE
It was Wednesday and that lefty was Rafael Nadal. King of Clay. Underwear model. Tanned, photogenic guns. Not to mention, winner of ten Grand Slam titles, four Davis Cups and an Olympic gold. Oh, and, currently number two in the world. Rafa, to just about everybody. And Señor to j
ust about everybody on the tennis court. Wally was about to have the once-in-a-lifetime chance to take on the heavy, high-jumping topspin, the extreme angles and the relentless muscularity of the Raging Bull. Which was no doubt many a weekenders’ fantasy matchup until they stopped dreaming and really glarked the impossibility of actually trying to hold a rally with the ripped, bronzed, tireless Rafa express in the 3D world.
In about three hours, Wally would be facing it all and by extension, base camp of the same mountain as most every other grand slam winnabee in 2011. You see, with the right draw, four rounds and perky health, top twenty talent or the equivalent could get you to the quarterfinals of a Major. But after that you just got rudely logic-whipped by the seedings, and the mighty talents behind those seedings. Just to reach the finals, Wally would have to conk out two of the top four players in the world. In his half of the draw, that meant Nadal and then Andy Murray. To win it, he would have to goink one of the other top two, in his case either Federer or Djokovic.
And this wasn’t racquetball. To earn a grand slam title, you had to beat no fewer than three of the four felt-strafing furies. And there was just no way. You couldn’t do it. In fact, they probably couldn’t do it if they had to. Just ask Andy Murray.
But they didn’t have to. Wally did.
It’s no wonder Red thought the tour was a monarchy. It was. Based on talent yes, but a torrential reign just the same. With defenses so high and a court so packed, they repelled all the contending hordes.
And today, royalty was en la casa. And the hordes were knocking. And sweating. Not only was it was going to be the populist consolidation of the desert major, it was also another hundred-degree-plus day match for Wally. He and Rafa were the featured men’s early quarter and Andy Murray was taking on American John Isner that evening.
On paper, they were both competitive matches. And Red was feeling proud and parochial. But as someone once said, we don’t play on paper. Wally could blast all of his action-film pyrotechnics at these top guys, but it probably wouldn’t matter. They would still somehow impose their Grand Slam will, return his serve, hold theirs and squash him beneath their weighty resumes and large, multiple trophies. And even if he did manage to somehow batten down El Nino Nadal, he’d still only be a third of the way. On paper and on asphalt. Two more tall peaks loomed high and mighty in the background. But Wally hadn’t come this far and sacrificed so much delicious food just to be squashed without a good bombastic brawl to the end. He wasn’t puffed up, but he was planning to visit on Rafa all three of his weapons at maximum force, and hope that he worried Rafa just a little too.
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