It sounded like a medical condition and I guess it was. Gabe said nothing more while we all looked at each other wondering if this was as serious as cancer. Then Dad said, “What does that mean?”
Gabe leaned forward. “It means we have a decision to make. Anton has a decision. You have a decision. I always insist on having these talks with the entire family with everything out in the open because this decision affects the whole family.”
“What’s the decision?” said Dad. He always wanted facts, yes-or-no questions. He needed to keep things moving forward. Mom would have asked for all sorts of context and been nonlinear, but not if Dad was around.
“This is a common crossroads for a young teen player,” said Gabe. “You need to decide how hard you want to go after it.”
“You mean whether he’s going to keep playing tennis?” said Dad. I could tell he was wondering if Gabe’s approach was a motivational tactic. He couldn’t imagine this question as anything other than rhetorical. It was like asking Dad if he planned on taking his next breath.
Gabe picked up on the same thing. “It’s a real question. Mostly for Anton but also for all of you. Panos too. Everyone should think through the answer and not take this lightly.”
Dad was wondering if he had been wasting his money on Gabe. “Anton’s a great player. He could be truly great. Do you agree with that?”
“I do,” said Gabe. “He has the potential to be number one in the world.”
Dad’s face was delighted. He sat back and his look said prosecution rests.
Gabe had seen plenty of asshole tennis parents and he handled Dad beautifully. He turned to me. “Anton, I don’t want you to give me a definitive answer until you’re ready. Maybe a few days, maybe a few weeks. Whatever the timing is, it is. But I’d like now to hear what you think. Your first reaction.”
I didn’t have an answer ready. I felt like I was thrown on the podium in front of hundreds of people with no speech ready and no pants on. I realized I’d never seriously been asked the question before. I always knew I hated tennis but I always thought the answer to the question of playing had to be yes.
I said, “I don’t know, Gabe.” I started and stopped answers and stammered for a while. I wasn’t sure that the option of “no” was real. Dad would just fire Gabe and pull me back in, do more research on the next coach he hired.
“Okay,” said Gabe. “I understand. Take your time. Just know that if you say yes, it’s an absolute yes. I need you all the way in with me and I want you to have fun. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“So I want to propose a third option,” said Gabe.
We all stared at Gabe. Panos too. I could tell Dad was thinking what the hell next.
Gabe said, “Give me everything you have, everything. Show up early, work hard, stay late, laugh, enjoy it. Pour your soul into this with me.” He paused and stared back at me. “For one year. Everything and for one year. Then you can stop or you can do it for one year more.”
It was such a simple thing and I knew it was really a kind of trick anyway but it sounded so good to me. It took me out of the endless, hopeless darkness and gave me a light. It was an escape hatch. I could do anything for one year, and already the time with Gabe was better than the time with Dad.
Dad looked satisfied. Mom was silent and seemed relieved looking at Dad.
“Okay,” said Gabe. “One more thing. A hypothetical thing in case the family answer is yes.”
“Alright,” said Dad.
“I would like you to find a sports psychologist to work with Anton. There should be no stigma attached to psychotherapy. It’s an important thing and many successful athletes do this.”
We’d never thought about this before so we had no ready answer. Dad wanted to say no right away but knew he would sound like a brute so he said, “I’ll think about it.”
Gabe said, “I cannot recommend this strongly enough. It is an important step for a dedicated professional athlete. Most do it at some point and it’s better to do it early. As in pain anesthesia, it’s important to stay ahead of the pain. The best time for therapy is before a crisis.”
I never thought anything good or bad about therapy. I was just always up for somebody new to talk with. Dad was old-school so I could tell he didn’t like the idea but I could also see that he was starting to believe in Gabe.
CHAPTER
7
The time of day that I would call my own began at 9:30pm, after I’d been fed the right amount of calories, done my stretching exercises and climbed into bed. Sometimes I would read, sometimes I would lie on my back with the sheets up to my ribs, my hands behind my head, and I’d stare up at the ceiling until it became a dark sky filled with stars over my campsite in the wilderness, or a sunset on the horizon of the Caribbean Sea as I’d sit in the sand with my back against the trunk of a palm tree.
For a time, I abandoned the self-flagellating, wallowing-in-loneliness routine and my addiction was the 9:30pm dial of Liz’s phone number. She wasn’t on a strict get-your-eight-hours-sleep schedule and so wasn’t always home and available, but often was and I loved our calls. Connection with a person validated my personhood. Sometimes we spoke only a moment, sometimes much more.
“You have to win this week so I can come watch your match on Saturday.”
“Consider it done.”
“Good. I’m going to train up to New York to meet a friend and will drive out. Are you coming home in between or staying up there?”
“It’s a three-hour drive one way which is too far. I’ll be in a hotel starting tomorrow.”
“With your dad?”
“Yup.”
We each held our phone silently for a moment then she said, “I love watching you play. I always feel proud of you. Attracted to you.”
“That’s nice to hear.” And it was.
“In a way, you’re like I was five years ago. With the violin. My mom was the Caucasian, Main Line version of a tiger mom and she got it in her head that I could be a concert violinist and go study at Juilliard.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“It was a long time ago,” she said with the youthful gravity and perspective that adults find cute. “I managed to put an end to it, but it had gone on for years. Five hours on Saturdays, five on Sundays, three in the afternoons Monday through Friday. I got pretty good because how could I not, but I wasn’t a natural. And I hated, hated, hated it.”
“How did you get her to let up on you?”
“You have to prove you aren’t gifted. You have to demonstrate to your parents beyond a reasonable doubt that you have no aptitude for excellence in anything at all.”
“You tanked your play?”
“It’s the teachers too, if you have a good one. A strong one, enough that they can give the parents the truth. They see so many kids, they can see things more clearly than the parents. Every mom and dad thinks their kid has some kind of gift. My teacher told my mom I was pretty good but never headed to Juilliard.”
“And your mom backed off.”
“That, and I said if she made me keep up with the lessons and practice that she would only make me hate her. Then she backed off. But it was almost five unhappy years of yelling and crying and smashing violins against walls.”
I pictured the twelve-year-old version of Liz smashing a violin to the ground like a carnival-goer with a hammer, ringing the bell at the strongman game. “Good for you.”
“Parents are so crazy now. Poor parents want their kids to be pro athletes and make lots of money. Rich parents want their kids to do something artsy and exciting and not for the money instead of the tedious lawyer and doctor jobs that they have and they hate. That way they feel that their riches matter for something.”
I could have talked to Liz all night. Our phone conversation was the altar of my goddess of salvation. She had fought and bled for her freedom to control her schedule, to sneak to the homes of travelling parents and drink beer on weeknights. “Except my p
arents are rich and they want me to be a pro athlete.”
“Tennis is a country club sport. You’re in a crossover category. There are lots more upper class people with extra money for private coaching. Every guy I’ve ever been friends with has had outside coaching for soccer, lacrosse or tennis. It’s a whole cottage industry, these coaches. Probably what my friends will end up doing for work after college. Your situation is more intense than it was for me and for any of them. You’re different.”
“How so?”
“You actually are gifted.”
It was a nice compliment. I liked hearing her use the word in connection with me. I wasn’t sure if it was also advice. “So you think I keep going with tennis?”
“Maybe you do. It’s hard to be a concert pianist, a NASA scientist or a professional tennis player and also be a functioning social human being. So I don’t know. But you do have a gift.”
The compliment had gotten cloudy. “Ouch.” Liz knew how to sail and to surf, she took road trips with friends, drank beer, smoked pot and cut classes.
“I don’t mean autism,” she said. “I just mean doing other stuff.”
Mom had always said that girls mature faster than boys, that teenage girls can lead teenage boys around on a string. “How is it you know so much?”
“Don’t listen to me. I’m just blathering on. And I’m really not even a very good person.”
That sounded dangerous and attractive. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Maybe I have.”
CHAPTER
8
Liz’s parents were in Bermuda for a long weekend. We’d been dating eight months and she was a high school senior and allowed to look after herself for a few days. I planned to be at her house as much as I could get away.
We would see each other only about once a week but we talked on the phone every night which became part of my calming ritual, like reading a book at bedtime. She liked that she had the power to be therapeutic and she thought of herself as being a part of my team. Sometimes she would sing to me at the end of our call. Our lives had so little in common and that strengthened our bond.
It was October and the fall weather with gentle sun and no humidity had arrived. On Saturday morning I told Dad I was going to drive to Valley Forge Park and jog there. I got in the car and drove directly to Liz’s house, my hands vibrating with excitement, uncertainty. We still hadn’t had sex other than hand-jobs, and I thought this might be the day.
I parked on the street two doors down because I didn’t want the neighbors reporting back to her parents that my car had been in the driveway. Liz and I had agreed on that plan. I walked across her lawn to the front door which was open six inches and I stepped inside.
“Hello?” The living room was dark. I’d been inside the house only once before and didn’t know my way around. “Hello?” I said again.
Still nothing. There was a formal dining room to my left and a living room to my right with the staircase directly ahead. On one side of the staircase was a powder room and on the other a coat closet.
“Liz?” I figured the living room was the best place to start so I turned right.
“Boo!” Liz had flung open the closet door and stepped out wearing her dad’s navy trench coat that was long enough on her to dust the floor.
I jumped and spun in the air. “Jesus.” I had already been on edge.
“A strange man in my house.” She took unnatural pleasure in scaring the wits out of me. It didn’t have the feel of a prank to be mutually enjoyed. It felt more like the thoughtless amusement of burning ants with a magnifying glass.
I smiled. “You shouldn’t leave your door open.”
The next act in her script was more enjoyable. “What are you going to do to me?” She unbuttoned the trench coat and arched her shoulders to let it slide down to her feet. She was wearing a black one-piece thong teddy. She did a three-sixty then walked backwards to me, pressing her ass into me and bent forward to put her hands to her knees.
“I could think of a few things.”
“Bad boy. Breaking and entering. Taking advantage of a girl home alone.”
“Right.”
She straightened, turned and put her hands on my chest. “Then let’s get this over with.”
She dropped to her knees in front of me and yanked my jogging shorts to my feet. She took me in her mouth and began the slow rocking back and forth of her jaw over me, urging on my erection. I was still preoccupied with the earlier peek-a-boo and hadn’t caught up with the transition. Her efforts felt undeniably phenomenal but to no visible effect. It was as though someone had cut the nerve, dammed up the river, closed the valve.
I concentrated, tried to translate those wonderful sensations to an erect state of readiness as a show of my appreciation, but the more I concentrated, the more pressure I felt and the more hopeless things became.
She began to make soft grunts of confusion and frustration. Her annoyance grew to the point of a pause and full harrumph, but she didn’t give up. She came back on me with game perseverance until finally I felt a tingle. A promising accumulation of blood flow.
I could sense that she sensed it as well and she began to work more furiously, determined to be victorious and keep what must have been a perfect record of male arousal.
Her momentum built, as did mine, and in a moment I was fully erect.
She leaned back and held me up like a jeweler showing a pocket watch on a chain and instructed, “It should come to me in this condition.”
From there it took her less than two minutes to finish me off. She stood and looked up into my eyes. “What a wonderful intruder you are.”
“Wow, Liz.”
She laughed. “Better than jogging in Valley Forge Park?”
“Well, it’s different. And a million times better.”
“You want a beer?”
“No, I better not.” Don’t be an ass. This was a moment. First blow job. “Actually I’ll have one. Sounds good.”
She went to the kitchen, still wearing the black thong, and came back with two Bud bottles. I wondered what sex would feel like.
“So we’re on for tonight?” she said.
“Yup.”
“What’s the plan?”
“Still a surprise, you’ll see soon enough.” I had tickets to see the Dave Matthews Band at the Mann Music Center, an outdoor amphitheater.
“Sorry we can’t get started sooner, but, you know, we cheerleaders have responsibilities.”
“I know. I wouldn’t want the football team to have no cheers.”
“It’s alumni weekend. Bunch of old people walking around. Meet you here after? Around seven?”
“Great.”
I was sitting next to her on the sofa of the living room. She pivoted over me to straddle my lap and wrapped her arms around my head. She gave me a long kiss with relaxed lips and an active tongue.
“Anton, you are such a good person and I love you. I always thought it would be ignorant and provincial to marry a high school sweetheart, but here I am, in love with you. What else can you do when you meet your soul mate in high school? You’re the love of my life.”
I pulled her in for more kissing. I held her hips and moved her back and forth over me in a rhythm that was the closest I’d been to sex. I was hard again. Good to be sixteen.
“I have to get ready, Lover,” she said. “I’ll see you at seven.”
CHAPTER
9
After the beer I jogged anyway then hit some balls with Dad and by four o’clock was showered, dressed and bored so I decided to check out my beautiful girlfriend in her cheerleader outfit. Dad was on the sofa watching a Phillies game while Mom read a book in her bedroom.
I got to the game in the fourth quarter and a sea of people circled the football field. I stood rows back near the corner of one end zone and could see Liz but barely. She wore a vest and a miniskirt and pom poms in the red and white school colors. The home team was up 28–14 and everyone was happy on our
side.
At the final whistle the players ran to midfield and the cheerleaders turned to the crowd behind the home sideline and waved pom poms. The crowd stayed thick, talking about the good win for the program. I worked my way toward the field but in a moment the players went off in a jog to the gym followed by jogging cheerleaders.
I knew the layout of the school but none of the people so I kept making slow progress to where I knew the gym and the locker rooms to be. Kids streamed in and out of the buildings so I walked as though I could be one of them.
Near the women’s locker room a girl’s voice said, “Anton!”
I turned to see a cheerleader. She was still in her cheerleader outfit and had put a trench coat over it. I recognized her from the eighth grade years ago, but couldn’t remember her name. “Hi.”
“Good to see you. How are you?”
“Good, things are good. Still in the area.”
“Great. Gosh, I haven’t seen you in so long. What are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Liz.”
“Liz Betterton?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” She looked curious, or maybe disappointed. “Okay. Well, she’s not in here,” and she thumbed toward the women’s locker room behind her. “She was walking to the pool last I saw her.” She adjusted the shoulders of her coat and hustled off.
“Thanks.” Erica, I remembered her name, too late.
I walked down the corridor toward the pool, the smell of chlorine getting stronger as I went. The way was bright with fluorescent lighting but no one was around. The men’s and women’s locker rooms were in the opposite direction.
At the end of the corridor, two metal swinging doors led to the pool. I pushed through to warmer air heavy with pool chemicals. Fifteen feet ahead were two cheerleaders by the pool’s edge, talking and smoking cigarettes.
“Hi,” I said and walked up to them.
They froze and went silent, the only animation the trail of smoke from the tips of the cigarettes now dangling from inattentive fingers.
I stopped right in front of them, forming a tight triangle. “Have you seen Liz Betterton?”
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