Double Fault at Roland Garros

by Jim Plautz

The “New ETA” continued to expand and membership grew to more than one million paid members. The 20M Euros in dues was nice, but only a small percentage of the drug profits that Agbu poured into the Basque economy. But Agbu worried about the future. It was only a matter of time before his relationship with Al-Qaeda would sour and they would cut him off from the Golden Triangle. It was inevitable. Agbu needed to go to Mexico and develop an alternative source of supply.

  Agbu’s fame preceded him in Mexico and there was no problem setting up meetings with the right people, particularly after agreeing to speak at three fund-raising dinners of Basque loyalists. Four Mexican States were seeking autonomy from the Republic of Mexico. Armed with a $2M donation to finance the construction of a new Iberio-American radio station, his message was well received. “Brothers, we must use the media and internet to win the public relations battle, to change our image to one of peace, and capture the minds of our youth. Violence must be used only as a last resort. This is the way to achieving independence in the 21st century.” Agbu’s philosophy for the New ETA was exported to Mexico and South America.

  The New ETA also contributed $3M to the militant wing. The contribution came with advice. “Build small, independent cells composed of Basque loyalists. Reinvest half your profits back into the community and your organization will be immune from the authorities. Never sell to your own people or to your children,” he preached.

  Agbu knew many would ignore his message, but he didn’t care. He had his own objectives. The cadre of Basque sympathizers introduced him to the Columbian and Nicaraguan cartels that manufactured the raw material from the poppy plants. After three days of negotiation, Agbu had a new source of cocaine and heroin that would be shipped to him in Barcelona and other European ports. The price was higher, but it made the New ETA independent of Al-Qaeda.

  Agbu also took care of some personal business. Ernesto and Moises met Agbu at the airport. Ernesto was a friend from Agbu’s hometown of Vitoria who fled to Mexico after a failed bombing attack on the Spanish National Guard convoy. Moises had been a lookout for Anton the day he died.

  “Show me where it happened,” Agbu requested.

  They drove to the private airport and Moises pointed to the area in front of the terminal. The others waited as Agbu got out of the car and stood on the spot where his older brother died three years ago. “Take me to his grave,” Agbu said softly.

  Agbu spent two hours at the simple grave where Anton was buried. Moises and Ernesto returned to the car and watched Agbu talk to his dead brother. “Were they that close?” Moises asked. “I don’t remember Anton talking about him that much.”

  “Agbu idolized his brother, but I’m not sure that Anton cared about anyone but himself. Anton wasn’t real bright, although I wouldn’t say that in front of Agbu. Their real father died when Agbu was five, and he always thought of Anton as his father. He couldn’t do any wrong. After his death, Agbu never talked about Anton, but there was one incident that he almost killed someone that said something bad about Anton. He had a crazy look in his eyes, and it took three of us to pull him off of the other kid.”

  “Anton really screwed up the day he got killed. It was obvious that the target had bodyguards, but Anton went on with the kidnapping attempt anyway. He could have escaped, but apparently decided to shoot the CIA woman who killed two of our men. That guy Simpson grabbed a gun and shot Anton in the chest. It was more self defense than anything else.”

  “Agbu told me Simpson shot him in the back after Anton had surrendered.”

  “That was just a story we released to the press,” Moises pointed out.

  “Well, it’s too late now. I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell Agbu it wasn’t murder. He hates this Simpson guy.”

  Agbu returned to the car, effectively ending the conversation. He had a grim look on his face. “Is everything ready?”

  “Just as you requested,” Ernesto replied. “We have the explosives you asked for. Do you want to go there now?”

  “No, that will wait. We have planning to do.”

  Two weeks later Agbu stopped again at Anton’s grave on his way to the airport to say goodbye to his brother. “I won’t forget you,” Agbu promised. “I will get revenge on the person that did this to you.” Agbu’s flight wasn’t until 11:00 PM so he had plenty of time to anticipate the mayhem.

  Agbu’s plane taxied down the runway as explosions rocked the Mexico City Sports Arena, collapsing the domed roof. Ten hours earlier the National futball team was playing Argentina in front of 65,000 spectators with the dome closed to protect them from the 100-degree heat. Two security guards died in the explosion, but it could have been much worse.

  Agbu smiled when he saw the sky light up from the explosion and fire. “It is done, my brother, the stadium that Simpson built is destroyed.”

  She had called several times and left messages, but Pete had not returned her calls. Ambre had been at Saddlebrook for three weeks when she decided to take things into her own hands.

  We were just finishing dinner and Pete had already gone to his room when the doorbell rang. “Who can that be at this hour?”

  “Lisa, see who that is. It’s probably for you anyway.”

  A few moments later we heard the door slam and Lisa shout, “Pete, it’s for you.”

  Lisa’s tone told me she was mad. “Who is it?” I asked.

  “It’s that French bitch that Pete used to date.”

  “Lisa, watch your tongue,” Mary said sharply. “Do you mean Ambre is here?”

  Lisa didn’t say anything, but we knew the answer. Ambre was the only person that would elicit such a harsh reaction. I’m not sure I blamed her. “Tell Pete,” I ordered as I walked to the front door.

  Ambre was still standing outside where Lisa had left her, not sure whether to ring the bell again. “Ambre, it’s nice to see you again. Please come in.” I couldn’t help but notice she looked older and heavier than the last time she was here. The two years had not been kind to her.

  “Thanks, Mr. Simpson. I just need to talk with Pete for a few minutes. I’m sorry if I interrupted your dinner.”

  “No, that’s all right, we just finished. Have a seat and I’ll see what’s keeping Pete.”

  I rolled my eyes as I passed Mary on the way to Pete’s room. “Dad, I don’t want to talk to her,” Pete said firmly as I walked into his room. “She’s called a half-dozen times. Doesn’t she get the hint?”

  “Have you spoken with her?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t have anything to say to her.”

  After two years, he was still hurting. “Pete, you need to face her. You will always regret it if you don’t.”

  Mary had come up behind me. “Pete, listen to your father, he is right this time. You need to get closure with this. Besides, it took a lot of nerve to come over here like she did. You owe it to her to go down and talk with her. Ten minutes won’t kill you.”

  Ten minutes turned into three hours as the former lovers talked quietly in the living room while Mary and I holed-up in the family room. Lisa stayed in her room.

  We heard the door close and Pete came into the family room and sat down. Mary and I waited for Pete to say something, and when he did we knew he was on his way back.

  “I’m going to start training again at Saddlebrook,” he announced in a determined voice. “I want to give tennis one more shot.”

  The next morning Pete and I met with Dick Browning and his tennis director, Fred Liu, at Saddlebrook. Mary and I watched him limp to the car carrying his tennis gear. “At least he is getting out of the house,” I said. “That’s better than sleeping until noon and playing video games all day.”

  “I hope he doesn’t get hurt again,” Mary said, voicing both of our concerns.

  “I’m not sure his knee is ready either,” I agreed. “I hope he takes it easy for a while.”

  “I was referring to something else,” Mary answered. “Broken hearts take longer to mend than a torn ACL.”

 
“Yeah, right,” I said as I finally got the point. “Well, he is 19 years old and we can’t protect him anymore. Maybe Ambre is what he needs right now.”

  Pete had been moping around the house since school ended in May. The cast had come off in June, but he was at least a couple of months away from playing any tennis and was driving Mary nuts. He had no ambition. He had decided not to go back to Gainesville and enrolled at the University of South Florida for the fall semester.

  “Why don’t you go back to Gainesville where they have trainers and equipment that will help you recuperate?” I asked.

  “They don’t really want me back. They don’t think I can come back from a torn ACL and play SEC tennis. They want to give my scholarship to someone else.”

  “Did they tell you that?” I asked, with visions of lawsuits dancing in my head. I was mad.

  “Not in so many words, but I got the message. A couple of the other players said the same thing.”

  “Well, money isn’t a problem, Pete. You decide where you want to go to school and we’ll get you there. Florida still has a great accounting school.”

  “I’m not sure if I want to go back there, Dad, too many memories.”

  Saddlebrook trainers didn’t allow Pete to pick up a racquet for five weeks. “Anything you do now will only hurt you in the long run,” Ron told him. “We need to rehab that right knee until it’s stronger than your good one.” Ron Peters was his trainer and had overall responsibility for the rehab program.

  After a week Pete was begging to get on the court. “At least let me volley a little, or practice my serve,” he pleaded. “What can that hurt?”

  “Nothing, unless you want to learn how to be a one-legged tennis player,” Ron replied standing firm in his decision to keep Pete off the court until his knee was stronger. “Watch my service motion, see how I am springing up and pushing off my right leg. On my volleys, the knees are bent. If you started playing now you would favor your knee and develop habits that would be tough to overcome. Trust us, we know what we’re doing.”

  For five weeks, Pete’s schedule was the same. Mornings were spent rehabilitating the knee. After a half an hour of warm-ups, the physical therapists went to work; heat, exercise and ice. By the second week, Pete had increased the machine weight and duration of the exercise program. By the end of week three his right knee was at 90% strength and flexibility. By week four he could lift the same weight with both legs, and the swelling had almost disappeared.

  “Let’s give it one more week,” Ron decided. “You can’t rush an ACL injury. The physical therapist is telling me your knee will be as good as new. You won’t be able to use that as an excuse if you get beat.”

  Afternoons started with rehabilitation of the mind.

  “Positive thinking,” was the theme of the “mental tennis” workshop he attended every afternoon at 1:00. It was his favorite part of the day, possible because Ambre also took the class. Pete had never placed much credence in sports psychologists, but the more he listened, the more sense it made. It had its limitations. People who claimed tennis was 90% mental never got aced by an Andy Roddick 135 MPH serve.

  “Focus on playing one point at a time.” Pete could remember many times when he approached a shot remembering that the last time he had hit the ball long. It’s like a golfer worrying about hitting the ball out of bounds, rather than trusting his routine.

  Pete’s favorite lesson was to de-emphasize winning and concentrate on the joy of playing tennis and competing. It sounded corny at first, but the more Pete thought about it, the more he embraced the concept. He had always thought ahead about the importance of a point. Gee, if I win this point I’ll have a break point. Then, if I win the next point I’ll have a one-game lead, and only be two games from the set.

  “Stay in the present,” they emphasized. “Relax, breath deep and develop a pre-shot routine before every point. Play each point one at a time.” These were some of the tools that were designed to help athletes enjoy the moment, and savor the thrill of playing competitive sports.

  It helped that Ambre was there to talk to. She enjoyed the class as much as Pete did, and they debated the various lessons after class. Each came away from the class with a unique perspective and recognized that it was important to adapt the lessons to their own personalities. They agreed the key was to have fun again.

  Pete was motivated to get into the best shape of his life and determined to develop his upper body strength. The Saddlebrook trainers set up a program to add muscle mass, while maintaining flexibility. Enhancing core body strength was the new buzzword.

  While Pete was rehabbing the knee, Ambre was on the courts working harder than she ever worked before; five hours a day, three in the morning and two in the afternoon after the mental tennis class. She couldn’t practice enough. After her afternoon session, she would head for the spa and find Pete in the weight room where they worked out together for an hour before dinner. Ambre had lost the extra weight and was looking good, in fact, she was looking great, Pete thought.

  “Coach” left after the second week, but promised to be back in a few months. “Ambre, I’m proud of you, I can see that old fire in your eyes that I saw eight years ago. I can tell you are happy again.”

  “Coach, I owe you so much. Will you be there for me next year at the French Open?” It was their private joke, but it was also Ambre’s motivation. It kept her on the practice court long after her body told her it had enough.

  “I’ll be there,” Coach said. “You couldn’t stop me from being there when they hand you the trophy.”

  Pete started playing again after week five, a couple hours a day at the start, but gradually increasing his court time. There was no swelling and after two weeks, Ron gave the go-ahead and he started training six to seven hours a day, the final two hours with Ambre where they worked each other to the point of exhaustion.

  “Those are two driven kids,” Ron said to another pro as they watched Pete and Ambre push each other. “They seem to be feeding off each other.”

  “I’m new here,” the other pro said. “Are they as good as they were two years ago?”

  “Pete is better, he is stronger and seems to have an attitude he didn’t have before. Ambre has always been good. Now that she is back in shape, there isn’t anybody that can beat her when she is playing like this, not even the sisters.”

  “Speaking of sisters, I heard Pete’s sister is pretty good, too. What happened to her? I haven’t seen her around here for a while.”

  “You won’t see Lisa as long as Ambre is here. Something happened between them a couple years ago and there is no love lost between them. Anyway, Lisa has never been in Ambre’s league. Ambre would kill her.”

  Ron hadn’t seen Lisa play in six months and might have been surprised. Lisa was training full time at Harry Hoppman’s Tennis Academy in Clearwater, Florida and her game had improved. Lisa had matured and was now 5’7’ and a muscular 130 pounds. She didn’t move as well as Ambre, but Lisa was bigger and stronger. Her serve was a weapon, and on hard courts it might be a close match. Time would tell.

  It seemed I spent half my time in Paris arbitrating disputes between Bouygues and the other contractors. I was regretting the day I had offered them a key role in the project. They were falling further behind schedule and it began to look like the exterior work on the stadium would not be ready.

  “Marco, what’s the problem?” I asked as we prepared for the weekly steering committee meeting.

  “Real or imaginary?” Marco replied without smiling.

  “Let’s start with the real problems,” I suggested.

  “Well, there are always problems on a job this big, but nothing we haven’t been able to handle. The European Union steel strike cost us a few weeks, but we switched subcontractors and are getting the steel from Japan, and would you believe it, the Japan steel is cheaper and higher grade?”

  “The Japanese are still subsidizing their steel industry,” Ken pointed out.

 
“Anything else?” I asked. “How is Clark doing on the domes?”

  “They’re on schedule,” Marco replied, drawing attention to the computer-generated Gantt chart that dominated one wall of his office. “I’ll take you on a tour later and show you the components. Everything has been shipped in and is ready for assembly as soon as the foundation is completed. Like I said, the steel strike set us back a couple weeks, but we should be back on schedule by next month.”

  I looked at the Gantt chart again.

  Summary-Level Gantt chart - Major Tasks and Responsibility

  1. Repair Existing Stadium damage - Bouygues

  2. Update Exterior Facing - Bouygues

  3. Install Dome over Philippe Chatrier Court - Clark

  4. Install Dome over Suzanne Lenglen Court - Clark

  5. Redesign Seating, Restaurants & Press Box - Hunt

  6. Improve Transportation; Hwys; Marta; Parking - Bouygues

  7. Improve Media staging area and Security - Simpson

  “Okay, let’s talk about task two. What’s the problem?”

  “Real or imaginary?” Ken answered repeating Marco’s initial answer.

  “Come on guys,” I said, losing patience. “We don’t have time to joke around. I need to get a handle on this before our project control meeting.”

  “Jim, we’re trying to give you a sense of what’s going on here, and why Bouygues is behind schedule,” Marco replied. “It has nothing to do with steel shortages, skilled labor, design errors, computer problems or anything else that’s real. They are behind schedule because they are French.”

  “Oh, spare me,” I said with exasperation. “You mean to tell me that they want to be behind schedule?”

  “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. The French love to talk about things and really don’t have the same sense of meeting schedules and deadlines. They embrace the debate, rather than the solution.” Marco was on his high horse, I thought. It was probably his French blood.

  “It probably also helps that the Bouygues still think this should be their project,” Marco added. “Ken is right; Bouygues has no respect for deadlines.”

  “Give me specifics, Marco,” I demanded. I was getting frustrated.

  “Well, let’s talk about statues and etchings. The French decided after three weeks of discussion, that there would be an image of former French Open champions carved above each entrance to the stadium. There are six entrances, so there would be six people; Noah, Borg, Lendl, etc. Okay so far?” I nodded.

  “There will also be four life-size statues in the park outside the main entrance; Susan Lenglen, Yannick Noah, Francoise Durr and the four Musketeers. Now the fun begins. These decisions needed to be approved by the French Tennis Federation and the Roland Garros foundation. Four weeks later they still can’t decide on the six players that will be immortalized above the entrances, so now there is a recommendation to increase the number of entrances to the stadium from six to twelve. Apparently the list of immortals is growing.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Trust us, we are not exaggerating, and this is just one example. We are not going to be ready for the 2020 French Open if this continues,” Ken added. “Their delays are starting to impact the other contractors.”

  “What do our friends at Hunt say?”

  “They say it’s time to kick some butt.”

  Pete was living at home and commuting to Saddlebrook six days a week. With my travel schedule, I was glad that someone was in the house with Mary. Pete’s reason for staying home was a little different, Ambre was at Saddlebrook.

  Pete and Ambre were inseparable, but despite their closeness, they hadn’t slept together. Ambre thought back to the promise they had made to each other the evening she showed up at the Simpson home and convinced Pete into coming back to Saddlebrook. It was getting tougher and tougher to keep that promise. She remembered the conversation almost word for word.

  “Pete, I’m going to try to put the last two years behind me and give tennis another shot. I was hoping you might want to give it try too. We could work out together and help each other. We used to be a pretty good team.”

  “My leg is pretty screwed up. I’m not sure I’ll ever get my speed back.”

  “Your backhand was pretty screwed up when I first saw you at Saddlebrook. I helped you with that one, didn’t I?”

  “You certainly did,” Pete remembered and smiled for the first time. “I do owe you for that, but ACL injuries are different. I tore my cartilage and two ligaments.”

  “You won’t know unless you try,” Ambre said, putting her hand on Pete’s.

  Pete withdrew his hand and looked at Ambre. He wanted so much to believe in her again, and also knew instinctively that Ambre was the one person that could bring him back. “One condition, Ambre, we can’t get involved again on a personal level. I just want to be friends and concentrate on tennis.”

  “It’s a deal. I’ll see you out there tomorrow.”

  “What happened to you Ambre? Do you care to talk about it?”

  “It’s a long story, are you sure you want to hear it?”

  They talked for two hours and Ambre shared secrets she had not discussed with anyone else. She talked about the thrill of winning and the depths of despair waking up after another day on drugs. Most important, she talked about her fear of not being strong enough to say no if tempted again. Pete listened and offered support and comfort, and suggested a way to make her stronger. It had been a long time since Ambre had been to church and asked forgiveness of the Lord. The following Sunday they attended Mass together and for the first time Ambre knew in her heart she was going to make it all the way back.

  That was two months ago and Pete wondered what Ambre was getting out of this partnership. “My knee is better than ever and my tennis game has improved. What’s in it for you?” he asked that evening while they longed at an outside table at Windy City Pizza in Tampa. Pete was feeling good about his game and was entered in a $25,000 Master’s tournament this weekend.

  Ambre started to reply with a flippant answer, and then decided to answer from her heart. “Don’t you know, Pete? I love you.”

  Pete was caught totally off guard and looked at her to see if this was a joke, although the tone of her voice told him otherwise. “Ambre, we agreed to be friends,” Pete said weakly, thinking back to the two years of pain. “I couldn’t stand to lose you again.”

  If Pete was expecting an apology, he didn’t get one. “Pete, be honest with yourself, you never had me two years ago. I was only 16 and I was your first, real lover. We were two oversexed kids having a great time and enjoying each other’s company. I wasn’t old enough or mature enough to love you or anybody else. You made more of it than there was.”

  Pete knew he was hearing the truth. “Grow up, you said. You were right, I needed to grow up, didn’t I?”

  “You are grown up now, Pete, and I love what you have become. You have given me so much, and you don’t even know it.”

  “I’ve never stopped loving you, Ambre.”

  Chapter 32

  Comebacks