SLAMMIN'

by Marcus Cootsona

  “That’s not exactly a name,” said Wally.

  Flint read on. “Our mission is to improve working conditions for all tennis professionals, not just the top five or ten. We demand increased prize money for early rounds, a health care and a player’s pension as good as the California teachers. Okay, that may not be possible. But we want a good one. We are not crazy and we have the means to deliver. As you have seen, we can bring the biggest tournament to it knees and we will do it again and again if our demands are not met. Soon, it may not be Wally Wilson winning a major; it may be Potito Starace, Thiemo De Bakker or Jarko Niemenen. LOL.”

  “Jarko Niemenen?” said Wally.

  “Yup,” said Flint. “He’s actually a good player.” Then, reading again, “What will happen to the sponsor dollars then? They will dissolve like those little recycled forks. And you will never find us. We are everywhere and nowhere. Like philosophy, ESP or better gas mileage. We control the situation and we have been controlling it since Lake Tahoe.”

  “But what about Danielle?” interrupted Wally.

  Flint held up his hand and continued reading, “Of course, you’re wondering about Danielle Wilson. Her fate is in her husband’s large, calloused hands. So, Wally, baby, as you would say, work on your serve. With a step and a weight transfer to better days, we are, Tennonymous.”

  “Is that it?” said Wally.

  “Almost,” said Flint. Reading again, “P.S. You only have yourselves, the ATP and Donald Grosser to thank for this. Treat him well.”

  “That was one text?” asked Wally.

  “Broken up,” said Flint. “Older phone maybe. Or they just wanted to be annoying.”

  “Is it genuine?”

  “As smartphone text-manifestos go, probably. We have to assume so anyway. So, no pressure, but if you want to see your wife again, you’ve got to win this thing.”

  “Thanks. Yeah. I kind of got that,” said Wally.

  Wally’s nerves immediately went Thor and his strength surged to a Marvel Comics ten. Back on Stadium Court, he smoked the civilian Isner 6 – 0 in the fifth in eleven minutes, setting a number of records he would have traded in a minute just to see Danielle again. The crowd went Casaba and swarmed the court with cameras and offerings. Wally’s body loudly misbehaved, but there was more than enough noise to cover it. Wally had stormed into the finals and the fans swirled and eddied around him. Red had to feel some qualified satisfaction. It didn’t get much more populist than this.

  Wally finally freed himself at five and Willy drove them back to PGA West.

  “The U.S. freakin’ Open Finals,” said Willy, hitting ninety in the Rapide up Jefferson. “Bro, do you realize how eminent and profitable this is?”

  “I actually do,” said Wally.

  “I am so proud of you.”

  “Of us. This was a team effort.”

  “This feels good, I gotta admit. What do you say we go to LG’s and just have a little celebration?” said Willy.

  “You know I would, my brother, but I’ve got to play the U.S. freakin’ Open final tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow night.”

  “Good point. You can’t party, you’re in the freakin’ Open final,” said Willy.

  “That’s freakin’ right.”

  “That’s freakin’ right on!”

  “Freakin’.”

  “Freakin’.”

  “Freak.”

  “Freak. Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  They both laughed and just bathed in the chillitude of it all.

  “You should celebrate,” said Wally. “You’re not on the monastery diet. Why don’t you take Zelda somewhere?”

  “We broke up.”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, kinda. She’s seeing Steel now.”

  “Agent Steel?”

  “DJ Steel, actually. But he’s cool. He’s a rapper and a DJ, with a doctorate in twentieth century English lit.”

  “I never would have guessed it from the things he said.”

  “Yeah, a fluffin’ PhD.”

  “Let me guess. Fitzgerald, right?”

  “His thesis. Man, scooped by a tweed coat who can spin, and talk F. Scott. But it’s okay. It was never going to last with her. She’s too intense for me.”

  “The whole threesome thing?”

  “No,” smiled Willy. “That worked out. No, it’s just, she can’t stop thinking. And you know, my brother, sometimes you just gotta have a beer. I think they’re perfect for each other.”

  Willy looked over at his brother and Wally smiled then too.

  They drove home the rest of the way in an understanding and masculine silence. Wally knew Willy hadn’t matured at all, but he would pretend that he had. And Willy knew he was not okay losing Zelda to Steel, but he would pretend that he was. But that was the deal. That’s what men, guys and brothers did. They stayed loyal, didn’t pry too much and pretended it was all okay. Still, thought Wally, it must be tough to be almost fifty and single, and tough to be almost single and fifty. He hoped the more conventional twosome thing with the unconventional Sophie would work for his brother. It seemed like that arrangement had enough of it own possible permutations.

  Match nerves gone and Thor back on Asgard, Wally lay down on the couch with Rod Laver The Dog, watched Retchy handle Tsonga in four sets and fell asleep.

  Right before he did though, it hit him. He knew he knew something – a feeling that was congealing or coagulating, solid to a point and still hard to touch firmly. He was really in the U.S. Open finals. Against Retchy Crane. On a Saturday. In the desert. What a story this was. The oldest and youngest players, both unseeded in the draw, meeting in the final. That didn’t happen. None of this did. And somehow, he needed to win, because somehow, this was all for Danielle.

  Watch out, Andorran man-boy, thought Wally, because this isn’t some two hundred fifty pointer in Chennai, this is the U.S. freakin’ Open. And I’m playing for my life.

  TWENTY-SIX

  And then it was the day.

  The very first Saturday final in U.S. freakin’ Open history and one of the most anticipated freakin’ tennis matches since Budge vs. von Cramm, Laver vs. Connors or Dean Paul Martin vs. Guillermo Vilas in the 1979 film, Players. At ten dollars a ticket, it was wild, popular and wildly popular. The corporate no-shows had stayed home, and they were replaced by a sports fan crowd. The Stadium was SRO and the throng inside was SPF and DUI. Wally t-shirts sold like free beer and expensive beer sold like wet tees. This was a middle-Sunday-at-Wimbledon group and they wanted things fast, hot and obvious. Wally was geared to oblige. The match would be at three and it would be hot. And fast. Not as fast as the Isner match, but fast enough to keep eyeballs glued and big screens tuned. And Wally’s pull was obvious.

  Ashley’d flown in late the night before with Sophie, Deuce, Addie, Dirk and the hunky SEAL stewards. And at dawn plus a couple, the Posse had galloped in in the ‘Stang. Raj drove them down and everyone had to buy two tanks of gas. JetBlue was probably cheaper.

  When Wally awoke, he felt purposeful, focused and calm. This was going to be a good day. The Posse bestowed their pre-match positive vibes on him. Brett, “We didn’t think you’d make it.” Raj, “You’re lucky this isn’t in New York. I’m on every no-fly list this time of year.” Brett, “I had to cancel lessons to be here.” Cindy, holding Raj’s hand, “You’re going to have to raise your rates.”

  Then off Wally’s look at the two of them together, Cindy added, “It wasn’t the car, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  During breakfast, Dick the VC, Dr. Fleischman and twenty other students texted him that they were coming to watch him, and the manifesto-text Flint read him had convinced him that if he won today, he would get Danielle back. Signs were pointing in the right direction.

  Even Tennonymous had faith in him, and that meant a lot. They were players after all, and not just any malcontent kooks who couldn’t make it on tour and resented the world for it. They were malcontent kooks who couldn’t make it on tour
and resented the world for it and had his wife as a hostage. He took their good opinion seriously.

  When Wally, his kids and the Posse drove down to the Tennis Garden that morning, no one could see the practice courts for the courtside. It was shoulder-to-shoulder shoulders.

  “No pine trees,” said Brett, entranced. “I want to live here.”

  When Wally stepped out on the court, he almost fainted, whooped and threw up from excitement. Standing at the net, waiting for him to hit were Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal. Yes, that Roger Federer and that Rafael Nadal. Both looking chic despite their brief abduction. Federer was stretching and Nadal was bouncing up and down, kicking his famous caboose with his heels.

  “Now I really want to live here,” said Brett.

  Wally strode out in weak-kneed awe and the crowd went into a full Bieber. If Wally needed any validation of his status on tour or SportsCenter, he had it now. And it was breathtaking. Literally. He could barely breathe. He wasn’t sure if he could even hold a racquet. Federer and Nadal both walked up to him and shook his hand. He somehow managed to shake theirs too. He tried to stay purposeful and focused. But calm? Not a chance.

  “I think I owe you a birthday present,” said Federer in his almost-American Swiss accent.

  Wally mumbled nervously, “Thanks. Yes. Thank you.”

  Nadal stopped jumping for a moment.

  “And I owe you too,” said Rafa. “I defaulted. This is bad, no?”

  Wally mumbled on. “It wasn’t your fault. You were abducted by terrorists.”

  He was consoling Rafa.

  Wow.

  “In any case, we would both like to warm you up,” said Federer.

  “You would?” said Wally.

  “Is that alright?” said Federer. “Nole and Andy are right now hitting with Retchy.”

  “Uh, sure,” said Wally.

  “Fantastic,” said Federer.

  “Vamos!” yelled Rafa, and he began to jump again.

  At that moment, all values became relative. Wally Wilson didn’t need the U.S. Open final. He didn’t need a Porsche GT 2 RS. He didn’t even need his youth back. He was going to warm it up with Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal. That was enough.

  Dude.

  The three of them drilled, hit, served, played a few points and then signed exactly two million autographs. When they were finished, Federer went to an adjacent court to watch his twin daughters go up a break against two eleven year-olds, Rafa re-wrapped all of his overgrips and Wally went to the locker room to shower and change into his match clothes.

  But the final seemed like a formality. He was already in the denouement. What more could he want? He’d been on court with Federer and Nadal. And he didn’t lose.

  In the locker room, the TV’s were all turned to the women’s final, but there wasn’t anyone there to watch it. At this point in a tournament, most of the players were gone. There wasn’t no one, but Retchy never used the place and the doubles guys were at The Yard House. So at the moment, there was no one there. Wally had spent a lot of time alone on a tennis court, but who knew the Open locker room would be lonely? But of course it was. In fact, tennis was lonely. That’s why people played team sports.

  In a few minutes, he’d step out in front of thousands, but even then, or especially then, he was by himself. You could travel with an entourage, they could pump fist from the player’s box, but ultimately you mano’d it alone. And that’s why there was doubles. And voices in your head. In singles, if your interest or focus sagged or your strokes got yippy, there was no team to prop you up and carry you until you got it back. You were player, teammate, coach and rooting section. With all the safety net of a standup comedian. There were emotional and physical swings in all sports, but tennis was inherently volatile and unstable and the scoreline was an EKG hooked to a mood ring.

  Though he wanted to savor this moment before the biggest match of his life, he’d rather have savored it with some fellow humans. Or even tennis players. As it was, he just wanted to get out to the court and get it started. He Nike’d quickly and was about to head back to civilization and the uncivilized heat when Swanee came in. It seemed right or inevitable that he was the last person Wally saw in the locker room.

  “You made it,” said Swanee.

  “So far,” said Wally.

  “Looks like we’re gonna have to pay up.”

  “Hope so.”

  “Me too,” said Swanee, patting Wally on the back. “And that’s from the heart. I believe in you.”

  “Thanks,” said Wally.

  “Can’t believe some of the other stuff that’s been going on, though. The top four all getting Valley Fever. What are the odds?”

  “Slim,” said Wally.

  “Yeah. Well, that’s the Tour’s version, anyway. But it’s all covered. Fed, Nadal, you. They all play for us. And now we’re sponsoring Retchy too.”

  “Smart,” said Wally. “He’s the future.”

  “Maybe. But you know what? My money’s on you.”

  “Isn’t your money on everybody?”

  “The company’s is. I got Wally Wilson at twenty-to-one.”

  “Twenty-to-one? This late?”

  Swanee laughed. “No. I did that a month ago. Got a good tip. Anyway, get your serve in, okay.”

  “Yeah. Guess I’d better. Thanks for the pep talk.”

  As Wally stepped out of the locker room to meet his family, he saw Deeplee Arqane for what he guessed was also the last time. Wally introduced Deuce, and Arqane guided them to the familiar thatch of pitch turf. Arcane gave Rod Laver the Dog a biscuit and put a hand on Wally’s shoulder.

  “It is not what it seems,” said Arqane.

  “It hasn’t been for a while,” said Wally.

  “But, today,” said Arqane. “Today, it will be.”

  “What it seems or what it doesn’t seem?” said Wally.

  Arqane tightened his shoulder grip. “You have learned much and are ready.”

  “Thank you,” said Wally, utterly mystified.

  “Way to go, dad,” said Deuce.

  Arqane bent close and whispered to Wally, “In bocca al lupo.”

  “How’s that?” said Wally.

  Arqane said it louder, “In bocca al lupo.”

  “‘Into the mouth of the wolf’,” said Deuce.

  Wally looked at his son, impressed by the quick translation.

  “Assassin’s Creed 2,” said Deuce.

  Arcane nodded. He patted Wally on the back. “We’ll miss you.” He gave Rod another biscuit and he was gone.

  The women’s final had been quick, and when it was done, the Stadium emptied for food, hooch, relief and retail. The net was re-set, and the seats were re-filled with rumps. In the tunnel where Wally and Retchy waited, there was silence. Wally flashed back to summer nights on a neighborhood court with Willy. They played tennis after dark. No lights. No visible opponent. Just sound, a swing and maybe contact in the gloaming. The object was to keep a rally going. The concentration was intense. It was exciting, uncertain and really foolish. Just like now.

  But it was more than the memory that got him. Wally had sort of received what he wanted – a walkover to the final. He was rested, but the heat made you feel empty in your stomach. Off-balance. Wary. He wished he’d trained more for this, but he wasn’t physically able to do it. The heat was a second opponent. One would have been enough.

  Wally could feel the hushed anticipation of sixteen thousand beings. Each person there had paid ten American dollars to sit in the heat and watch three hundred mph serves, an American victory and history. They were waiting, hoping and expecting that energies were about to fuse and create, and that something wonderful, powerful and primal was about to breathe into life. Maybe the first U.S. men’s win since Roddick. Or maybe simply the sight of an old guy mocking and mucking with the clock. They loved Wally and his story and the hat. Red, white and blue panamas tinted the crowd as they waited. Like audiences throughout history, the assembled witnesses were subd
ued and reverent in these moments before performer and spectator created together. Especially when they were really hot and sleepy from too many beers.

  However, from the moment the players belched out the vomitory, the crowd was alive, aloud and agog. If they were disappointed not to see Federer, or Nadal, or Djokovic or Murray, you’d never know it. They came for the show and from the first ball, the show was on.

  Retchy was movement and agility and retrieval and consistency. Wally was power, more power and his hard shots. Ignited by the idea of playing for Danielle, he hit harder than he ever had. He wanted to slam the ball for Danielle. To save and rescue Danielle. To crush all obstacles for Danielle. But Retchy hadn’t gotten the memo. He moved fast and sent most of it back. For winners. He’d worked his whole nineteen years or whatever for this. He was in the twilight of the modern sports career and he wasn’t going to let it slide away. Retchy and Wally were color-commentary complementary and it was close and competitive, much like the Isner match, but for different reasons. At the end of four sets, the score was tied. Wally took a comfort break and when he came out for the fifth set, the scene was exultant. And expectant. And electric.

  And then it all unraveled.

  With Retchy serving, up 40–Love in the first game, Wally chased down a wide, hooking forehand and found some trouble. The shot wasn’t really all that wide, but Wally wasn’t really all that fast. He started late, headed out of the lines by the camera pit at full speed, barely stabbed a ball deep to Retchy’s backcourt and then looked up to get his bearings.

  And he saw Danielle.

  He quickly blinked and looked again.

  He still saw Danielle.

  There she was, sitting courtside with four tennis players surrounding her.

  Bad timing.

  After all the months and all his concern, here she was watching him play the fifth set of the U.S. Open final. This wasn’t a coincidence. But it was a focus-buster. Tess, the girl with the tan, the limp and the Australian Shepard was one of the four, and she was smiling. They all were. And why not? They had what they wanted – an all-proletariat final. They could let Danielle go now.