by Jim Plautz
“When did Borg start to play tennis? When did he win his first tournament? Did he play any other sports? What’s he doing now?” Petie talked tennis the entire ten-minute ride to the club.
Where did this come from, I wondered? Mary and I had never pushed sports on Pete or his sister, Lisa. If they wanted to play something, we encouraged them. Pete was pretty good at soccer and baseball, but not a star. He was fast and could throw pretty well, but wasn’t as big or strong as some of his friends. Tennis might be a good sport for him.
“Borg grew up in Sweden, so naturally hockey was his first love. I read that his father gave him a racket when he was nine and he won his first tournament a year later. I guess he had some natural ability, but I’m sure he practiced quite a bit.”
“How long, Dad? How many hours would I have to practice to be as good as Bjorn Borg?”
“Petie, let’s take it a step at a time. It’s more important that you have fun. Not many people will ever be as good as Borg, but most of us can enjoy playing. Remember, he quit playing tournaments when he was only 26. It doesn’t sound like he was having that much fun anymore.”
“Dad, it will be fun when I win the French Open, I promise you.”
“Okay Petie, let’s stop the chatter and hit a few. Don’t try to hit winners, just keep the ball in play like Borg would have done. Let’s see if we can get to 20 in a row without missing.”
Petie had hit with Mary and me before and knew the basics. He had a pretty good forehand, but wasn’t consistent. His backhand was weak and he still made the mistake of most beginners by standing a few feet inside the baseline. He would learn that it’s a lot easier to come forward for a ball than go back, and those half-volleys at your feet weren’t as easy to hit as Andre Agassi made it look.
Mary showed Pete the correct way to grip the racket but he usually reverted to his natural ‘western grip’, which coincidentally was similar to Borg’s. Pick up the racquet off the ground and you have a western grip. It’s the natural grip for kids because your wrist is behind the racquet and it feels strong in your hand, especially on your forehand. The grip allows a player to hit heavy topspin off the forehand, but requires a severe grip change to hit volleys at the net or to hit a one-handed backhand. Many players with a western forehand use a two-handed backhand, including Borg.
Mary and I used the more conventional ‘continental grip’, which is the grip you get if someone holds the racquet head with the strings to the side, and asks you to shake hands with the racquet handle. Mary uses the same grip on both her forehand and backhand and was dynamite at the net. I couldn’t break my habit of moving the racket a quarter-turn to hit my backhand volley. As a result, I can’t count the times I’ve been caught at the net with the wrong grip, forcing me to pronate my wrist to get the racquet face square to the ball.
This wasn’t the time for a lesson; it was time to have fun. Any tennis player will tell you that there is a certain level of ability you need to reach in tennis before the fun begins. It’s not too much fun if you or your opponent can’t get the ball back over the net with some consistency and all you’re doing is running after balls. It’s a lot more fun when you start hitting two or three shots back before someone misses. We started off slow, but after 25 minutes we finally broke 10 and were at 13 in a row when I netted a backhand. Petie was so disappointed that he looked like he was going to cry. “Geez Dad, we almost made it,” he whimpered.
“I’m trying, Petie, believe me, I’m doing the best that I can.” I wanted to tell him how hard it was to keep hitting the ball to his forehand with just the right speed to have it bounce waist high. Petie still wasn’t too good at adjusting his swing or hitting the ball on the run, much less his backhand. It’s like pitching baseballs to a five-year old. They swing the bat hard, but usually on the same plane. It is a dad’s responsibility to pitch the ball to that spot.
Thirty minutes later we were at 12 when I ran far to my left and returned cross-court to his backhand.
“Thirteen,” I shouted and watched as he set up for his backhand.
“Fourteen,” he shouted as the ball came back to me perfectly on my forehand side.
“Fifteen,” as I hit a perfect shot to his forehand. Believe me, I was starting to feel the pressure.
“Sixteen,” Petie called as the ball came back, barely clearing the net.
I raced forward and barely got to his shot just inside the service line. “Seventeen,” I yelled as I scraped the ball off the court and cleared the net with inches to spare.
“Eighteen,” Pete whispered as he lobbed the ball back deep to my backhand. I could tell that Petie was nervous too.
I sprinted to the ball and hit an over the shoulder lob back to his side. “Nineteen,” I gasped as I saw the ball heading over Petie’s head, landing just inside the baseline. He would never catch up to it.
“Twenty,” he screamed as he lunged for the ball and crashed into the back screen moments after he had sent back his shot. Lying face down on the green, synthetic har-tru clay, Petie never saw the ball clear the net and land safely on my side of the court.
I was racing to Petie to see if he was okay, but I needn’t have. He was crying, but they were tears of joy. So were mine.
“We did it, Dad!”
Monday Ken and I flew to Mexico City to meet with the group that called about the domed sports complex. We weren’t sure why they had called us but we looked forward to hearing more about the project. This was a great opportunity for a small firm such as ours.
We flew business class and Ken’s 6’3” frame sprawled into the aisle as he tried to get comfortable and catch some sleep. He had played in a 2-day invitational golf tournament in Jacksonville over the weekend and hadn’t gotten home until midnight. His final round 69 had earned him the winner’s trophy and the right to buy drinks. I could picture him sitting at a large table of men exchanging war stories. While other players talked about 300-yard drives or 250 yard 3-woods, Ken would be bragging about the 25-foot downhill, down grain, putt he nailed for par. At 180 pounds Ken wasn’t a long hitter, but he prided himself on hitting fairways and greens. “If you hit a 170 yard shot to within 10 feet, Jim, nobody cares if you used a five-iron or pitching wedge,” he once told me. “Consistency and a good putter is all you need to play scratch golf.” Men liked him because he had that casual, unassuming way about him that projected self-confidence. He wasn’t what most women would consider handsome, but they were attracted to him because he was polite and complimentary while seeming indifferent, like he was having too much fun to chase women. For reasons I couldn’t understand, women responded to this non-approach and did the work for him. I see others try the same approach and go home alone. Go figure.
I was fortunate to have Ken with me these last five years. He’s been a good friend and golfing partner, but more importantly, he is someone whose opinions I respected and whom I could trust. I knew Ken Reed four years and was constantly amazed at his breadth of knowledge and quick mind. I have watched him complete a New York Times crossword puzzle while I was still reading the instructions. He could solve an “evil” Sudoku puzzle in minutes using x-wing, jelly-fish, Ariadne’s thread and other techniques that I never dreamed of understanding, much less mastering. “The secret is, Jim, you need to see the entire puzzle, not just a single box or column.” Easier said than done, I thought.
Ken got engaged last Christmas to Chris Lewis, a former employee who moonlighted as a DEA agent, but broke it off three months later. Ken didn’t talk about it much, but I’m sure it had something to do with her heavy travel schedule. He and Jack are still good friends and plan to enter several two-man golf tournaments this summer. They make a good team. Jack has the length to reach most par 5s and Ken is money around the greens.
Ken had a high I-Q, but unlike many Mensa club members, Ken also had the ability to relate this intelligence to the problem at hand. He was someone I could trust to do a tough job with a minimum of supervision, but let me know if there were problems that requi
red my input. This is a trait that I valued highly, and requires an individual with enough self-confidence to tell his boss or in this case, the owner of the company, “Jim, I could use your help on this one.” Ken had this ability and would be in charge of this Mexico project if we got the work. I had a gut feeling that getting a job like this on our corporate resume could be a catalyst for bigger and broader opportunities.
I interrupted my day dreaming and started reading the background material my secretary had provided. It never hurt to know a little about your client and the job environment before going into a meeting. The travel brochure told me Mexico City was founded in 1521 by Cortés in the middle of the now drained Lake Texcoco on the ruins of Tenochtitlan, the capital of the Aztec Empire together with its lesser-known twin city, Tlatelolco. Located in the high plateaus in roughly the center of Mexico, it is 2,240 meters above sea-level and surrounded by volcanoes towering 4,000 to 5,500 meters above sea level. It is Mexico’s largest city and one of the most beautiful cities in the world. This was confirmed when our Delta flight passed by the volcanoes before circling and approaching for landing to the North, offering a fantastic panorama to passengers fortunate to have window seats.
I skimmed the remaining information until an item regarding crime and guerrilla warfare caught my eye. I was surprised to read that factions in several Southern states were seeking independence and travel advisories were posted warning tourists to avoid these areas. There was apparently a strong Iberian-led independence movement in Mexico that is loosely affiliated with the Spanish Basque and South American terrorism. There was also a second article about increased crime and growing protests in the city. My reading was interrupted by the awakening giant on my left. “Are we there yet?” Ken asked, while he unsuccessfully tried to stifle a yawn.
The stewardess answered his question by announcing our arrival at Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City. It was 8:35 AM local time and 82 degrees. It would be a warm day. With only carry-on luggage, we cleared customs quickly and arrived five minutes early for our 10 AM meeting. A pretty receptionist promptly escorted us into a small conference room where our hosts rose to greet us.
“Mr. Simpson, thank you for accepting our invitation. I’m Juan Fretes, project manager. On my right is Commissioner Raphael Hidalgo who represents the Distrito Federal and to my left is Alejandro Rodriquez, Governor of the State of Chihuahua.”
We had done our research and knew that the D.F. was the basic governing body we would deal with. “Buenas dias gentlemen, I am Jim Simpson and this is my friend and associate, Ken Reed.”
“It’s a pleasure to be here,” Ken said as everyone shook hands.
“Please sit down, gentlemen. May we get you anything before we get started? There is water on the table, but we have juice or soft drinks. Have you eaten?”
Ken and I shook our heads. “Water will be fine. We had a light snack on the plane and are set for a while. Let’s get started.”
Juan took a moment to get organized providing me an opportunity to assess the three men at the table. It was clear that Juan was going to chair the meeting, which made me wonder where the other two gentlemen fit in. They obviously outranked him. “Before I get into the details of the project, you must be wondering why we called you. As you know, there are plenty of companies that would love to undertake a project of this magnitude.”
I nodded, but wondered to myself how many companies had already turned them down.
“It’s really quite simple. My cousin, Pedro Sanchez is the General Manager at the Hyatt in Cabo San Lucas has told us many good things about your company. He complimented your firm on handling a difficult situation with competence and integrity and assured us that you will treat us fairly.”
What a lucky break. I now understood why they called us. Advertising is great, but referrals are everything in the business world, and nothing is a substitute for a little luck. We found out later that all three men attended the casino grand opening two years ago and each had won a few dollars at the tables. It’s no wonder they were ready to do business with us again.
“I appreciate the kind words, we were fortunate to have Pedro on the project. He is doing a great job managing the hotel and golf courses.”
Juan continued. “Your firm also has a reputation for providing project financing, which I understand is your specialty. This is a key requirement for this project. You see, neither the D.F. nor the State of Mexico can afford to fund this sports complex through taxes, revenue bonds, or various other methods governments normally use to fund this type of project. Our country has too many basic needs to fund a sports arena with tax dollars. Compared to the basic necessities of life, many would consider this project a luxury, me included.”
Ken and I said nothing although this tied into the information I was reading when the plane landed. Apparently, the protests and violence were not just in the South of Mexico.
Juan took a sip of water and continued. “As you may know, Mexican banks don’t have the resources to fund a project this big, and outside investors still remember the losses they suffered when the peso was devalued back in the 80s. It’s been over 25 years, but bankers don’t forget. The construction firm we hire to build the arena must also provide funding.” He looked at me for a response, but none was necessary. Everyone in the business was aware of the challenges in funding projects in Mexico, not the least of which is the problem foreigners had in perfecting property liens. The business climate is improving, but the court system in Mexico is slow.
“Let’s hear more about the project before I try to answer that, Juan. We have provided funding in the past although this project is a little bigger than our usual deal. I will say that our firm has made money on the Cabo San Lucas resort, and certainly would be open to reinvesting these profits back into your country. Are there any other conditions?”
Juan glanced at his two associates for help. Commissioner Hidalgo picked up on the signal. “Yes, Mr. Simpson, there are. We need the new arena to be a Mexican icon, and a source of pride for the Mexican people, but ownership must be turned over to Mexico when the project is completed. You might have read about some of the protests over the last few months. A large segment of our people will not be pleased if this were an American-owned facility.”
I could see why Juan had wanted Commissioner Hidalgo to handle this issue. It wasn’t something that would appeal to a foreign investor. What are they saving the Governor for I wondered?
Ken vocalized what we both were thinking. “In other words, you want someone to fund a project that no one else will fund including your own banks, build it and then turn it over to the Mexican Government when it’s finished. Is that all?”
“No, Mr. Reed, there is one more item,” Governor Rodriquez interjected. “The final stipulation is that the borrowing entity must be a nonprofit, joint venture between the D.F. and the State of Chihuahua. The only assets of this company will be 200 hectares of land valued at $20M dollars.”
I must have had a perplexed look on my face as I tried to understand what he was getting at. “Is this is another way of saying that neither the State nor the D.F. will guarantee the loan?”
“That’s pretty close to accurate,” the Governor replied with a sheepish smile.
I could feel Ken grimace next to me, but I intervened before he could voice his displeasure. “And what is your estimate of total construction costs?”
“Approximately $300M dollars, maybe a little more.”
Ken started to say something, but I held him back again by putting my hand on his arm. “Gentlemen, I’d like to learn more about your sports arena, and maybe after lunch we could take a ride out to the project site. I have some ideas as to how we might get this done.”
Ken told me later that he thought Juan and his associates were going to crack their faces trying to keep from smiling. My openness to working with them despite their unreasonable demands was obviously unexpected, probably because the large, international construction
firms had already turned them down. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that we were at the top of anyone’s list.
Lunch turned out to be sandwiches in the conference room while we poured over plans and drawings for the new stadium complex. The centerpiece was an enclosed soccer stadium that also housed a practice field, locker rooms and a convention center. The domed arena was surrounded by a 25-hectare park that included eight tennis courts and two soccer fields. It was an ambitious undertaking. The most challenging and difficult component was the retractable dome that would protect fans and athletes from the elements. It has been done many times before, but is new technology in Mexico.
We took a 10-minute break during which Ken cornered me in the rest room. “I can’t wait to hear your ideas for getting this done,” he said sarcastically. “They are asking for a $300M loan and will not provide loan guarantees or supporting collateral. We are in a foreign country that hates American businessmen and has a history of screwing foreign investors by devaluing their currency. Even their own banks won’t lend to them. Why are we considering doing this?”
“Let’s wait and see, Ken. It sure would be an interesting construction job, wouldn’t it?”
Ken wasn’t amused.
The trip to the project site almost changed my mind and proved to be a forewarning of things to come. The governor and commissioner begged off with other commitments, having done their jobs. It was just Juan, Ken and me together with our driver and bodyguards. We traveled in an armored Lincoln town car with a police escort in front and behind. “Juan, Is there a reason for this extra security?”
Juan smiled nervously and assured me it was just a precaution that most government officials took advantage of when traveling on official business due to the growing number of kidnappings of politicians and foreign businessmen. “Don’t worry; it’s really nothing to be concerned about.”
Two hundred yards from the stadium I became concerned. After exiting the turnpike onto a dirt road, our small caravan came to a dead stop as we neared a disabled truck on the narrow road. I could tell our driver was concerned as we watched a policeman from the lead car get out and approach the vehicle with his hand on his holstered pistol. I tried to roll down my tinted window to get a better view, but found the windows locked. Seconds later I heard shots ring out and saw the policeman fall in a hail of bullets. More bullets raked the bulletproof glass of our town car as our driver swung around the truck and accelerated out of danger leaving the two police cars to fight off our attackers. Moments later the gunmen disappeared into the mountains. We found out later that the wounded policeman died on the way to the hospital.
“Are you all right Mr. Simpson? Ken, are you okay?” Fretes asked when we reached the construction site.
“Yes, we’re okay, but what happened? Why would anyone want to kill us?”
“There are some groups that don’t want this project to be built, particularly after the newspaper article last week that mentioned we might need to use an American construction company. Unfortunately, there is still a considerable amount of anti-Americanism despite the new employment opportunities that NAFTA has created.”
“How can you expect anyone to work in this type of environment?” Ken asked, raising his hands in exasperation. “Will our people be safe?”
“We’ll provide 24-hour security for the job site and the hotel, although I don’t deny there is some risk.”
“You don’t say!” Ken replied sarcastically.
“Mr. Simpson,” Juan said, looking at me hopefully. “I hope this doesn’t affect your desire to work with us? I promise you we will do everything within our power to address your needs.”
I was still rattled and took a few moments to gather my thoughts. I knew Ken was right and I usually took his advice when he thought this strongly about something, but I still had that gut feeling that this job provided a once in a lifetime opportunity. “Juan, give us a few minutes to talk things over.”
Ken hadn’t changed his mind and repeated his earlier warnings. “And now, we can’t even drive to work without getting shot at. Why should we do this?”
“I’m bored, Ken. We need a challenge, and besides, I am counting on you to come up with some ideas on how we can get this done. It’s your baby.”
Little did I know at the time that this decision would start us on a course to rebuild Roland Garros Stadium in Paris, France, home of the French Open.
“Mary, you should have seen him. He was so competitive. I never saw him want something so much. That’s something you can’t teach. It’s easy to teach kids to hit a good forehand or backhand, but you can’t teach desire or competiveness. Petie showed me something today.”
“That’s great, but all I know is that I cooked a nice dinner and you and Petie were over an hour late. You could have called.”
“Okay, but I’m telling you, you should have seen him. We went into the clubhouse to celebrate with a coke and fries, and one thing led to another. I just lost track of time. I’m sorry, but don’t take it out on Petie, he is so excited about tennis. Go talk to him.”
“Fine, but what’s this about tennis lessons with Gregg?”
“Gregg was just finishing up his lessons and I invited him to join us. I mentioned that Petie saw a Borg-Lendl replay of the 1984 French Open finals and that Petie was excited about Borg. It turns out that Gregg saw Borg play in Miami and was at the French Open at Roland Garros five years ago. Petie just hammered Gregg with questions.”
“What about the lessons?”
“They’re really not lessons; just a junior tennis program that Gregg suggested would be good for Petie to get involved in. The lessons are 90 minutes, Monday thru Friday and on Sundays, teams from our club play matches against other clubs in the area. Gregg thought this would be a great way to get started.”
“It sounds good, but if Petie is really interested in playing tennis, lessons might not be a bad idea. He should learn the basics before he develops bad habits that will be hard to break later. It’s like golf, once you start having some success with a bad swing, it’s awfully tough to change because it always means a step backward before you realize the benefits.”
“I know what you are saying. Petie still grips the racquet with the full western grip and was even trying a two-handed backhand today. Gregg likes a one-hander because it allows you a little extra court coverage. What do you think he should do?”
“Let me think on it for a while, there are a lot of arguments for the two-hander. In the meantime let me go talk to our young tennis star and take him some dessert. I’m feeling a little guilty for banishing him to his room without dinner. I guess I was a little hasty.”
“I love it when you admit you’re wrong” I said, as I wrapped my arms around her.
“Don’t push it, Bozo. I’m still mad at you for not calling.”
Mary found Petie watching French Open highlights in his bedroom. “Well, Peter, your dad says you did pretty well on the tennis courts today.”
“Did he tell you we had a rally of 20 in a row?”
“He sure did, your father was awfully proud of you.”
“We had another rally of 13 but Dad missed an easy shot. But that’s okay, he was trying.”
Mary had to stifle a laugh. Jim was right; this was a new boy she was seeing. Something had changed in him. “I understand you want to start playing in the junior program at the club.”
“May I, Mom? I’ll get my homework done after dinner.”
“Sure, I think it’s good to get involved in sports. Tennis is a great game that you can play all your life.”
“I want to be just like Bjorn Borg, the Ice Man. Dad said he practiced three hours every day after school.”
“Borg had a two-handed backhand. Is that what you want?”
“Yes, and I want a full western grip, just like his. Will you teach me, Mom? Dad says you know more about tennis than he does.”
Mary couldn’t help but be flattered by the compliment, and Petie asking her for he
lp. She couldn’t say no if she had wanted to. “Sure, I would be glad to help you, under one condition. The first time I see you throw your racquet our deal is off. I want you to have fun. If I don’t think you are having fun, you will be grounded from tennis.”
“Okay, Mom, I promise. I’m going to have more fun than Borg did and won’t retire until I’m at least 27.”
Mary smiled. She knew that being 27 years old is unimaginable to a 12-year old. “Okay, let’s start tomorrow.”
Pete surprised her by jumping off his bed and giving her a big hug. “Thanks Mom!”
Chapter 3
The Spanish Training Center