“A double secret,” said Wally.
“Yeah, in a way.”
Just then, a diminutive couple in their eighties stepped into the living room. Wally seemed surprised or shocked to see them.
“Dad? Mom?”
“Hi, son,” said his dad.
“Wallace,” said his mom warmly and hugged him.
“Did you see my match?”
“Just the fifth set,” said Wally’s dad.
“Sorry,” said his mom.
“Me too,” said Wally.
“You know how nervous we get,” said Wally’s mom.
“I’d have lost my lunch,” said his dad.
“So, why are you guys here? You haven’t watched me since the ten-and-unders.”
Wally’s parents both looked at Zelda.
“She’s very persuasive,” said his dad.
His mom nodded.
“Yeah,” said Wally, knowingly.
“Yeah,” said Willy.
“Yeah,” said Sophie.
“Yeah,” said Steel.
“And it’s the U.S. Open final,” said his mom. “How many more of these will you play?”
“We should talk about that,” said Zelda.
“Besides,” said his dad, “it’s about time we told you the truth about something.”
“The moon landing wasn’t fake?” said Wally.
“No,” said his dad. “It’s about our family. Zelda convinced us we should.”
Wally looked at her.
“What?” said Zelda. “Research. Interviews. One thing led to another to finding out all about your family and some very juicy details.”
“Do I want to hear this?” asked Wally, carefully.
“It’s time you knew the truth,” said his dad.
“It’s okay, really,” said Wally.
“We did a dance on your birth certificate,” confessed his mom.
“What?” said Wally.
“We’re not your birth parents,” explained his dad.
“I wondered about the height thing,” said Wally.
“You’re adopted,” said his mom. “And you’re not really fifty-four.”
“What is this?” said Cindy, “The Importance Of Being Wally?”
“I’m adopted?” said Wally.
“Don’t be mad,” said his mom.
“And you’re fifty-seven,” said his dad.
“Don’t be mad,” repeated his mom.
“Fifty-seven? Are you both serious?”
“Of course they’re serious,” said Brett. “They’re your parents. Sort of. Anyway, you look at least that old. In fact, let’s just round up to sixty.”
“Thanks,” said Wally.
“I think you look fifty-three,” said Cindy.
“Bless you,” said Wally.
“Even fifty-two if we trade cars,” said Raj.
“I’ll think about it.”
Raj looked relieved.
Wally turned back to parents, “I’m adopted?”
“Yes,” said his mom, tearfully. “Don’t be mad.”
His dad took her hand.
“Do you want to be alone?” asked Zelda.
“Alone?” said his dad. “No way. At our age, we’re alone all the time.”
“We’re fine,” said his mom. “It’s just been a while since we’ve dealt with this.”
“You haven’t dealt with this,” said Wally.
His parents didn’t answer.
“Is there more?” asked Wally.
“A little,” said his mom.
“What?” said Wally.
“Well, don’t you want to know why you’re really fifty-seven?”
“I’m not sure I do,” said Wally.
“Well, we’ve started in on this, we have to finish the story.”
“Okay, then, yes, I guess.”
She nodded to Wally’s dad to pick up the story.
“When you were one your birth parents took you to a hockey game and you fell off a Zamboni,” said his dad. “Hit your head on the ice and went into a coma for three years. When you woke up, they abandoned you. In my dealership back stock lot. Near a light blue Civic EX.”
“I fell off a Zamboni?”
“You’re mad, aren’t you?” said his mom nervously.
“No, I’m not mad,” said Wally. “A little confused maybe.”
“You had no identification,” continued his dad, “except the hospital bracelet. You were very small and non-verbal. We thought you were a one year-old. But we did some digging and found out you were actually four.”
“I guess that’s clearer,” said Wally.
“I think it explains some things,” said Danielle.
“Sure does,” said Brett. “You totally cheated in the age groups.”
“Not knowingly,” said Wally.
Then again, pretty discouraged, Wally repeated it, “Fifty-seven?”
“Fifty-seven,” confirmed his dad.
“Don’t be mad,” said his mom.
“Bro, it’s just a number,” said Willy. Then, to his dad, “And me?”
“You’re adopted too,” said his dad. “But you’re only forty-nine.”
“Thank God. I’m glad I didn’t just age three years too,” said Willy.
“‘Just a number?’” said Wally.
“You won the U.S. Open,” said his brother. “You’re set. I still need my looks.”
“You could pass for forty-eight,” said Sophie, kissing him.
Wally looked at Zelda, then again at his folks.
“Why are you just telling me this now?”
“You know how there’s just not a good time for certain things?” said his dad.
“And this was it?” said Wally.
“Now son,” said his dad, “let’s not focus on the negative. Not that I’d ever do this, but it was just like resetting the odometer. That’s all.”
“And we’ve always loved you like our son,” said his mom.
“And we never let you ride on a Zamboni,” said his dad.
“We never went to a hockey game,” said Wally.
“Exactly,” said his dad.
“Wally, give them a break,” said Zelda. “You know now.”
“And it’s all because of Miss Fitzgerald,” said his mom.
“I’m sorry,” said Wally to his parents. “That’s just a lot of information. Thanks. I guess.”
“Actually, there are a couple more things,” said Zelda.
“There doesn’t have to be,” said Wally.
“Not about our family,” explained his dad. “That’s all the laundry we’ve got.”
“We didn’t mean to withhold,” said his mom. “Just don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” said Wally.
“I would be,” said Brett.
“You sound a little mad,” said Deuce.
Wally hugged his mom and dad warmly and said gently, “I’m not mad.”
“Don’t worry, the rest is about the tour,” said Zelda. “It got busy after the final. The suits are really freaked about terrorists and kidnappings and an all-unseeded final, so naturally they started legislating. Wally, you won the U.S. Open, but the tour felt the need to pass a ‘Wally Rule’.”
“I have my own rule?”
“Yes. You’ve been banned from ever participating in a pro event again.”
“I see. That kind of rule.”
“Yeah. Sorry. The ATP has also passed a rule against serves over a hundred sixty miles per hour.”
“Okay.”
“Retchy’s points go to Isner and Tsonga.”
“Alright.”
“And though yours would make you fifteen in the world, you’ve also been banned by the ATP’s new twenty to twenty-seven age limit. Which includes a special exemption for current top-ten players and key sponsor’s selections.”
“Now I might be mad,” said Wally. “Is that it?”
“For you,” said Zelda. “On the advice of counsel, the Tour’s also starting a cha
rity for victims of abductions by Marxist inspired malcontent former tour hopefuls.”
“That’s so specific,” said Brett.
“I’m not sure they were actually Marxists,” said Wally.
“And there’s a benefit concert tomorrow with U2, Bono and U2 featuring Bono. Thought you’d want to know.”
“Some of it, yes,” said Wally.
Willy raised his glass again.
“Okay, so enough of the depressing loose ends,” he said. “What I got out of that was, my brother won the U.S. Open at age 57, with one eye and a missing wife. Everyone’s back together again, we’re at a beautiful house, the DJ’s okay and some of the people here can really dance. Especially that short, hairy guy. And even though my brother just lost a fortune in endorsement dollars, let’s party!”
“I second that,” said Wally’s dad. “Let’s party!”
As the mood began to revive and the festivities re-festivated, Wally turned to Zelda.
“Thanks. I appreciate what you did. Though I’m not sure how quickly I’ll get over the coma abandonment reveal. But there is one more thing,” said Wally, holding up this trophy.
“Sure,” said Zelda.
“Who gets the plate?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
One hundred and sixteen. That’s how many days had passed since it all began. Wally doubted he could serve anywhere close to one-sixteen at this point, but it didn’t matter. It was Monday, September 19, 2011, and he was back on court, teaching again and not scaring, scarring or injuring anyone. Most of his students had come back and so had his binocular vision. The eye patch was gone, replaced by a bruise, some “other guy” comebacks and the U.S. Open trophy.
This afternoon he had a full book. Dick the V.C. at one, Clymnestra in Takeovers at two and then three seniors at three, four and five who all wanted to serve it one-thirty, or at least sixty. He was back. And for better or worse, it was all about the same.
Besides the devoted or the felt-addicted, no one in Atherton cared much about tennis in September. It was the month of football, back-to-school and the benefit and charity cha-cha. In fact, no one in Atherton really cared that Wally had won the U.S. Open nine days before. And certainly not by disqualification and transitivity. This was Atherton, after all. There were apps to download, buyouts to leverage and no shortage of Olympians or illustrious pros out on the streets. Now if Wally had won eighteen or twenty majors, he might be in the conversation. Until the Niners game on Sunday. Or the next Apple store opened.
However, despite what Atherton thought, tennis continued. Girl’s high school teams were starting their matches, the USTA was always leaguing somewhere and the pro tours played on into December before starting again in January. It’s just that the game’s allotted three months of attention here had spanned and gone.
And so had his brother.
Willy and Sophie were with Retchy at a minor event in Guangzi. Willy had found himself a player in Retchy and maybe a steady girlfriend in Sophie. And the WTA had generously found a rules exemption that let Retchy play a shortened schedule, and as many exos as she wanted.
The planets had all realigned.
They just didn’t have a choice.
Retchy’s dad had even hired Sophie to e.p. some of his puppet films. They were currently mid-script on a live action/marionette feature at a horse race. Which, given the studio’s slant, was probably one species too many. But Wally doubted he’d find it on Apple TV anyway. At least he hoped he wouldn’t.
The Margincall’s security gate was open as Wally and Rod Laver the Dog started down the long driveway. Wally had just dropped Danielle off at SFO. She and the recently sports-book-wealthy Flint were flying to LA to scout new café locations and pump up the IPO. She would be home tonight.
Wally and Danielle were back together and so were their finances. And her forehand was better.
Danielle didn’t get an M5, but she and Wally had paid off their second, funded college and dotage, pre-paid for Maui over Christmas and bought a couple burgers. That’s what one-eight gets you in Menlo Park, California – just enough of a financial leg up to make your stand, and get you back running and chasing. But who could tell how it would all play out? Maybe they’d greenlight his biopic. Nothing was certain, but he’d heard the script was out to either Liam, Tom, Javier, Bob, Johnny, Harrison or Brad. Or maybe they’d said Jonah Hill. Deuce had offered to play himself.
Wally pulled up to the court.
Ashley, now number one doubles with Addie at the Atherton Academy was practicing her serve. With all her clothes on.
She took a ball and called to him. “Hey, very tall Bruce Banner, check out my motion.”
She kicked one out wide in the ad court.
“Your serve looks great,” said Wally.
“I know it does. But what about my motion?”
She lowered her racquet and wiggled her torso, her tight red “Work On Your Serve” t-shirt straining harder than a Grey’s Anatomy plot point.
The ethics exam, day one-seventeen.
“Hit another and I’ll watch,” said Wally.
Ashley gently lofted a straight, spin-less toss and pured a pretty, mid-eighties slider directly up the T.
“Solid, right?” she appraised confidently. “And don’t tell me follow through. You know I can’t get the racquet around my chest.”
He did know that. But thought he wouldn’t think about it.
He did think, what an interesting president she’ll make.
As he and Rod got out of the GT 500, Wally glanced toward the pool. There, sunbathing topless in the hot September afternoon was a woman. Mid-sixties. Umbrella drink. Attractive. Great figure. Absolutely unselfconscious. Wally turned and looked toward Ashley.
“Betty,” she explained.
“Grandma Betty?”
“In the flesh.”
“Indeed,” he said.
What would Dick do about this?
“She’s the one who really raised me,” said Ashley.
“I can see that,” he said.
“And taught me how to keep them at bay,” she said as she spun on one leg and high-kicked the fence.
Heads up, electorate.
“So you want to whack it while we wait for Dick?” asked Ashley.
“Slammin’,” said Wally.
He grabbed his racquet bag from the back seat, as Rod Laver the Dog waited patiently by the boot. Wally gave him a treat and closed the car door.
Just a little too hard.
Oh, no. Not again.
It shook. The driver’s side window jiggled. The glass flexed in the frame. But the window didn’t break. Wally looked at the Mustang for a moment and smiled. He checked it all around, but his reclaimed classic was still intact.
Phew.
Rod Laver the Dog finished his treat and wandered off to the shade.
Wally adjusted the side mirror and flicked a bug off the hood.
Just a little too hard.
What the?
The biffed bug pinwheeled past the pavers and took out Betty’s mai tai.
Sorry.
Wally paused a moment. He could feel his heart lapping the track.
Really? Now?
That free fall feeling was back.
His eye twitched once. Then, again.
Maybe he could serve it one-sixteen.
You just never knew.
Wally Wilson picked up his bag and headed out to the court
THE END.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marcus Paul Cootsona is a tennis professional and lapsed playwright. He lives in Northern California with his wife and two sublime, ridiculous dogs. He is not a former Navy SEAL.
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