Double Fault at Roland Garros

by Jim Plautz

Pete’s game continued to improve under the tutelage of Gregg and Mary. He finished his first year in the Florida 16’s ranked #12. The next year his ranking improved to #4. He had developed into a good, all-court player without a significant weakness. Pete had the groundstrokes to rally with the clay court players and the serve-and-volley game to play on hard courts.

  The top tennis colleges were starting to call. Florida, Illinois, Georgia and others had all sent letters of interest. Pete was too young to sign a letter of intent but the college coaches wanted to get their names out front. Recruiting was a tough business.

  It’s tougher for the boys to get a tennis scholarship. Title 19 requires universities to give an equal number of scholarships to men and women. It sounds good in theory, but in practice it punishes boys in the minor, non-revenue sports such as tennis. Eighty or ninety scholarships are given to football, which pays the bills for all sports with the exception of men’s basketball which is a break-even sport at most schools and a profit center at some of the big programs such as Duke and UCLA. There are only a few scholarships left for boys in the other sports. If a school has a dozen scholarships available for tennis, eight or nine usually go to women. Florida for example might offer one or two full rides to the boys, and give half, or quarter scholarships to the rest of the varsity team. Pete’s #4 ranking would probably earn him a full ride to many schools. Last year’s ranking of #12 would get him only a partial ride. The pressure for ranking points was intense.

  “Mary, see that fellow across from us in the straw hat. Do you recognize him?” Gregg asked. They were watching Pete in the finals of a designated tournament in Jacksonville beat up on the number two seed who was ranked #6 in Florida.

  “Should I know him? Who is he?”

  “That’s Leon Harris, head coach at Stanford. They are in town playing the University of South Florida this weekend. I wonder if he came to see Pete or the other kid?”

  “Wow, I hope he likes what he is seeing.” Mary knew Stanford was one of the top programs in the country and defending NCAA champions.

  Pete finished up a convincing 6-3, 6-3 win with an acrobatic cross-court forehand off the dead run. It was an exclamation mark on a great tournament.

  “He is walking over this way,” Mary whispered.

  “Mrs. Simpson, Let me introduce myself. I’m Leon Harris, tennis coach at Stanford University. Your son’s a real nice player and looks like a great kid. You should be proud of him.”

  “We are,” Mary replied. “It’s been fun watching him grow up, and Gregg here has done a wonderful job as his coach.”

  “You have done a nice job. Pete has good strokes and a nice all court game. He will be a top player when he develops a weapon. I’m looking forward to watching him progress over the next two years. Good luck,” the coach added as he walked away.

  “That was nice of him to say, wasn’t it?” Mary asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Gregg replied. “I think he was telling us that Pete has a nice game, but without a big serve or crushing forehand, he won’t be getting a scholarship from Stanford. That’s what I heard.”

  Mary answered suddenly deflated. “Any suggestions?”

  “The coach is right; Pete doesn’t have that one killer shot that most champions have. His serve is darn good, but not like a Sampras or Roddick. His forehand is pretty good, too, but not like Roger Federer’s. The two-handed backhand is consistent, but more of a defensive shot.”

  “What can we do about it?”

  “It’s not that easy, Mary. “If it were, everyone would do it. All we can do is continue stressing the fundamentals. My coaching philosophy is that if you move your feet and get into the correct hitting position, your groundstrokes improve. If you bend your knees and hit up through the ball, your serve improves. We need to keep working on the fundamentals.”

  It wasn’t the magic panacea that Mary wanted to hear. For the first time Mary started to wonder if Gregg had taken Pete as far as he could. Maybe Pete needed someone else to take him to the next level?

  The Nationals in Kalamazoo, MI were coming up in August. It would be a true test of where Pete’s game was compared to the top players in the United States. Florida and California liked to think they were the only states to play good tennis, but there were great players from all over the country.

  Pete was seeded #27, not bad considering he hadn’t played outside Florida. This was his first exposure to big time, pressure tennis. Kalamazoo has hosted these championships for 25 years, and was the most prestigious tournament of the year for American junior tennis players.

  Pete drew an unseeded player from Michigan in the first round. The tournament is played on hard courts, which play a lot faster than clay courts, and it took a few games before Pete caught up to the boy’s fast serve and powerful ground strokes. Pete had been practicing for two weeks on hard courts at the local high school in Tampa, but these courts were faster. Despite the “Go Wolverines” cheers from the partisan crown, Pete eked out a tough 7-6 (4), 6-4 victory. There were only three service breaks in the match, none in the first set. It was a good start.

  The second round match was against the #18 seed from Mexico. This style was completely different than Pete’s first round match and more like the tennis Pete saw in Florida. Rather than a power game, Pete was confronted with spins, slices and looping topspin. Pete fell behind 1-4 before he realized that he had to be patient and wait for a short ball to attack. Pete lost the first set, but came back to win a hard fought, competitive, three-hour match, 4-6, 6-4, 6-2.

  “I would hate to play that kid on clay,” Pete said later.

  Pete’s 3rd round match was against an unseeded player from California that had upset the #14 seed in the 2nd round. Gregg had seen part of the match and warned us that this kid was tough and he was right. The boy did everything just a little bit better than Pete and won easily, 6-2, 6-1.

  I was pleasantly surprised to see Pete was up beat. “I guess we know where my game stands compared to the best,” he commented dispassionately. “There was nothing I could do.” “The guy was just too good for me.”

  “Reaching the 3rd round of the National 16s isn’t too bad,” I replied, “but yeah, that kid is good. I hope he wins it all.” The Californian won his next match, but lost to a kid from Texas in the semis, who lost to the eventual champion. There are a lot of good players out there.

  It wouldn’t get any easier. The Orange Bowl was next.

  Agbu realized that his uncle was shaking him. “Wake up, Agbu. I have terrible news.”

  Agbu struggled to make sense of what his Uncle Enrique was saying, but managed to sit up. When he saw his face, he knew it was about Anton. “Is it Anton?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is. He was killed yesterday in Mexico City.”

  Agbu wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. Instead, he felt emptiness inside. “I had a bad feeling when he called two days ago that I would never talk to him again. Is there anything on the news about a big bombing or kidnapping over there?”

  “No, nothing. My friend just said Anton had been shot and killed Friday afternoon.”

  Agbu knew that his brother had failed in his plan. Agbu swore that when it was his turn he would not fail.

  “What happened? Do you know how Anton died?”

  “My friend said he was trying to surrender when he was shot in the back by an American businessman. Anton didn’t even have a gun.”

  Agbu was quiet for a few moments, the rage building inside. He finally asked the question. “What is the American’s name?”

  “Jim Simpson.”

  Ambre’s success at the French Open made her a national celebrity, at the age of 15. Always a prodigy to the French people, she was now a star. She didn’t handle it well and her tennis suffered. It seemed the rest of the year was devoted to modeling shoots, interviews and celebrity tennis gigs. Everyone wanted a piece of her and she was too vain to say no; she loved it! It got to the point where it was difficult to find the tim
e to play in tournaments, much less practice.

  The situation came to a head when she was upset in the 2nd round of the Marseille tournament by another French girl whom she had beaten several times before in straight sets. Her coach pulled her aside, “Ambre, I can’t watch you throw your future away like this, I’ve had it with you. Either start concentrating on tennis or we are finished.”

  “Coach, come on. I wasn’t feeling well today, I just started my period. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

  “Ambre, listen to me, I’m tired of your excuses. You either change your attitude, or find yourself a new coach. I love you like a daughter, but I can’t watch you do this to yourself, I just can’t.”

  Ambre looked up at the 60-year-old man that had coached and watched over her since she was six. She had always just called him “Coach” and suddenly realized that he was the one constant in her life. Ambre started to cry and continued until “Coach” took her in his arms.

  “I’m sorry, Ambre, it’s just that I care about you so much that I can’t stand to see you waste your life away. You can be one of the best players ever if you put your mind to it. What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

  “Did you mean it? Do you really love me? No one ever said that to me before.”

  In that moment he realized the loneliness that Ambre must feel. She had been shipped off to tennis camps since she was eight, and seldom saw her parents. Millions of people cheered her and purchased the magazines with her picture on the cover, but she had nobody that held her and told her they loved her. He had forgotten that she was only 15.

  Coach reached for Ambre and pulled her close. “I love you Ambre. You are a kind, gentle young lady that has brought so much joy to me. I only want what is best for you,” he sobbed as tears ran down his cheeks. “You are the daughter I never had.”

  Ambre cried into his chest for several minutes, oblivious to the people around them. For the first time she felt loved and appreciated. It was more important than being adored by thousands. She finally leaned back and said, “Coach, I’ll be at practice early tomorrow, we have a lot of work to do to get me back in shape. I won’t disappoint you again.”

  “I believe you,” Coach said with a smile. “We will need to work hard. The Orange Bowl in Miami, Florida is in four weeks.”

  “I’ll be ready, Coach, count on it.”

  “Carlos, have you ever been to Miami, Florida?” Sergio asked.

  “You know I haven’t ever been out of Europe,” Carlos answered as he looked at Sergio Brugerra with interest. “Is there some reason for asking?”

  “No, not really. Fritz and I were talking about taking a couple kids over to the States and play in the Orange Bowl over Christmas, but you probably want to spend the time with your family.”

  “What family? You guys are my family. Are you joking or are we really going to Florida?”

  “It’s a tough tournament. There will be a lot of good players. Can you handle it?”

  “Don’t you worry about me, I’ll be ready.”

  Carlos didn’t sleep that night. He lay awake thinking about going to the U.S. and winning the Orange Bowl.

  Chapter 15

  The Orange Bowl