by Jim Plautz
Carlos caught a local bus and arrived in Madrid the next morning carrying just one bag containing his tennis racquet and all his worldly possessions. Most 13-year olds would have been scared, but Carlos was not like most kids. He hadn’t lost a tennis match in two years and knew deep inside him that he was destined for stardom. He wanted to be the best tennis player in Spain and make his countrymen forget about Brugerra, Sanchez, Moya and the other great Spanish champions.
Carlos looked around and recognized no one, so he grabbed his bag and wandered out to the street fronting the station. He saw a van with the Spanish Tennis Federation sign and climbed aboard.
“You must be the new kid, Cordero,” the driver said. “I’m Fritz, one of the pros at the academy. Today I’m your chauffer but tomorrow at 8 AM I‘ll be your drill instructor. Are you ready?”
“I’ve been preparing for 13 years, bring it on,” Carlos replied with a lazy, confident smile that hid his inner competiveness. He was smart enough to know that he was entering a new phase in his life and had just been issued a challenge.
This one is different, Fritz thought. We’ll see if he has the game to back it up.
At lunch the next day, camp director and head tennis pro, Sergio Brugerra, the former #1 player in Spain sat down at Fritz’ table. “How’s the new kid working out, Fritz, any talent?”
“You have to see him for yourself, Sergio. He has it all. He’s the best young player I’ve ever coached.”
“You’re kidding, aren’t you? He’s better than Jose, better than Pedro?”
“This kid is Moya with an attitude. He knows he is the best, or at least will be the best. Talk to him a few minutes and you will see what I mean. That’s him sitting by himself at the corner table.”
“Carlos, I’m Sergio Brugerra, head of this tennis camp. Welcome.” They shook hands but Carlos didn’t get up or indicate that he recognized his name. Sergio sat down and continued. “Is everything okay so far?”
“Everything is fine, Mr. Brugerra,” Carlos replied politely. “I like it here.”
He’s not a complainer, thought Sergio, that’s good. “Fritz tells me you have some talent. What are your goals?”
“I’m going to be the best Spanish player there ever was,” Carlos answered, looking Brugerra directly in the eye.
Sergio was a little taken back. Holder of two French Open championships and over thirty other titles, many considered him to be Spain’s greatest player. This kid will be mortified when he realizes who I am, he thought. “Well, the purpose of this camp is to allow promising players to maximize their potential. If you have the physical and mental makeup to be a champion, we will help you to attain your goals. Work hard and success will come to you.”
Sergio got up to leave the table. “Just let me know if there anything I can do for you”
“There is one thing, Mr. Brugerra. Tell me what it felt like to win your first French Open.”
Ten minutes later Sergio Brugerra left the table and whispered to Fritz on the way out. “Work his ass off this afternoon and then set up a match with Pedro at 5:00. Let’s see if he can play as well as he talks. See how well he competes.”
By 7:00 Sergio had his answer, Carlos had been beaten. Pedro won a competitive match in straight sets, 6-3 and 7-5 and was being congratulated by the 25 other players at the camp who had watched the match. None of them had wanted the newcomer to beat their best player.
Carlos sat by himself, close to tears. He didn’t like losing, in fact this was the first tennis match he had lost in two years. It didn’t matter that Pedro was four years older and ranked #7 in Spain’s 18-year old age bracket. It didn’t matter that Fritz had worked him hard for six hours before the match and he was dog-tired. There were no excuses for losing.
Carlos got up and slowly walked over to Fritz. “I’m sorry I let you down, Fritz. I know I need to get in better shape. What else do I need to work on? I know I missed a ton of volleys.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Carlos, you were fine. In fact, you were better than fine, you were good. Have some fun this evening and we’ll go over the match tomorrow.”
Brugerra came over as soon as Carlos left. “What was his reaction Fritz? I could see he was tired. Did he complain?”
“Not once, Sergio. He apologized for letting me down and asked what I thought he needed to work on. Can you believe that?”
Sergio Brugerra, two-time French Open champion and one of Spain’s all-time great players just smiled. “You were right, Fritz, we have something special here. I never was that good at that age, not even close.”
“I really believe he will win the French Open some day, at least twice.”
“The construction team they hired couldn’t build a barn much less a domed sports arena. Did you know that it’s owned by Juan’s brother-in-law? If we are going to do this, we need to bring in our own people.” I had asked Ken to come up with a plan to build the sports arena in Mexico City and a week later we were sitting in my office discussing options.
“What do we know about construction, Ken? We don’t have any experience other than the Cabo San Lucas casino.”
“I agree, but we can hire people who do. We have a different work ethic than they do in Mexico. We believe in making a plan and sticking to it. They don’t. We have two years to build this arena or the additional construction costs and interest payments will eat us up.”
“I gather you have a plan?”
“I do. We need to hire a team, maybe four to six people, who have international construction experience and can oversee a project this large. They can hire local contractors but we would be in charge.”
“Where do you plan to find these people?”
“Remember Alberto, the consultant for the Cabo job? He has contacts throughout the Caribbean and knows several people who would be interested. He also knows an architectural firm that has done domed stadiums in Milwaukee and Detroit. We need someone with experience to review the plans.”
“Alberto worked for Mario, didn’t he? Do you feel comfortable working with him?”
“As far as I know, Alberto was only a consultant to Mario, and probably no worse that most other consultants. He didn’t have anything to do with Mario’s drug ring. Consultants will work for anyone if there is a buck or peso in it for them. We will watch him, but I think he will be okay.”
“Mario’s still in jail, isn’t he?”
“Doing 10-20 in Attica the last I heard. He’ll be an old man when he gets out. I doubt if we need to worry about running into him for a while.”
“Anything else, Ken? I get the feeling you have another surprise for me.”
“This one you will like. I think I found a way to minimize our risk. We would still need to put up $40M or so to cover the A-Piece of the loan, but I think I found someone to put up the rest of the money. We obviously need to work out the details.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Remember Sven Johansen? Sven now controls the investment for several large European Pension Funds. Would you be willing to work with him again?”
“You’re kidding, this is like the Cabo project all over again. But to answer your question, yes. It would be fun to work with Sven again as long as the money doesn’t come from Mario’s drug network.”
“Sven assures us that his money sources are clean, and we will have the opportunity to verify them ourselves. You know, I still don’t think he knew where the money came from for the Cabo deal.”
“I agree, I think Mario had them all fooled. Sven could be a great resource if he really does control pension fund money. This could work out well.”
“Yes, and this time we are in control and can end up with a great reference for future construction projects.”
“I took a sip of coffee and considered what Ken was suggesting. “I like it, Ken, make it happen.”
4,800 hundred miles away in Nice, France a beautiful French girl rocketed a service return to the feet of her older opponent, came to the net and smashed the weak repl
y for a winner. It culminated an awesome display of clay court tennis resulting in a 6-3, 6-2 victory and the tournament championship in the eighteen and under division. Ambre threw her racquet into the air and blew kisses to the adoring French crowd that had cheered her every shot and now gave Ambre a long, standing ovation. They knew this ten-year old French prodigy would become the first French-born woman in 40 years to win the French Open.
Chapter 4
Tennis Lessons